


Euphoria

by VausemanFinishingSchool



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings Apply, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anger Management, Anxiety, Arranged Marriage, Bisexuality, Bulimia, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon LGBTQ Female Character, Canon Lesbian Character, Delusional Disorder, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drunk Driving, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Forced Marriage, Futanari, Girl Penis, Hermaphrodites, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homosexuality, If anything is a potential trigger please do not read, Implied/Referenced BDSM, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Intersex, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), LGBTQ Themes, Love/Hate, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Musical References, Orange is the New Black References, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Pregnancy, Racism, Rock Stars, Same-Sex Marriage, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, True Love, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, anti-Semitism, i think this is it, lots of shit goes down in this fic so, not sure tbh, so be patient, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VausemanFinishingSchool/pseuds/VausemanFinishingSchool
Summary: 2000s AU. Galina Reznikov has a PR crisis in her hands. Her client, renowned rock star Alex Vause, has pushed her reckless behaviour to the limit. And this time, it's going to take a rather unusual proposition to salvage her reputation... WARNING: G!P, mental illness and heavy substance abuse. Full warnings inside.





	1. We Are The Vauseinators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another concert is done and dusted for rock superstar Alex Vause. Meanwhile, it's Piper Chapman's first time watching The Pussy Destroyers in action.

Alex Vause is high when she struts on stage.

Blasts of screaming fill the room, but they're distorted, hazy to her senses. She's floating on a cloud of ecstasy, above and beyond the crowd below. Whisked away by her escape, she's blinded to reality. Only a warm, familiar numbness cruises through her system; the harshness of the cold ground is no more, for she's far into her flight.

She smirks, but it translates into a lazy grin. One that the girls can't resist, captivating their hearts in a beat. One that drives her hungry spectators wild. They respond with a wave of screeching, and it smacks Alex head-on, pounding her eardrums and consuming her conscience. In her dazed fit of elation, her grin can only widen.

While one hand grips her trusty guitar (electric blue, of course, with a blazing flame printed across the body), the other languidly raises into the air. It's a half-wave, half-command. Amost like a dictator. Simultaneously, the chorus raises again, and Alex knows she's got full control. Women in the first row become breathless, gawking and squealing, begging for any form of acknowledgement. The power she exudes is undeniable; every move has the audience firmly in her grasp.

Alex lowers her arm, revelling in the atmosphere. The band may be performing, but this is all for _her_. A new kind of bliss drifts through her body. She's never felt so fucking alive.

"WE FUCKING LOVE YOU, NEW YORK!" It's Nicky Nichols that hollers into the mouthpiece, always the mouthiest of their group. "YOU READY FOR THIS SHIT?!"

It's not obvious, because sunglasses are shielding her eyes, but she's also high. Alex knows for a fact. After all, they snort those pre-performance lines together. It's tradition.

The cheering reaches a crescendo, and it's that peak of activity when Alex's vision becomes warped; colours bright, shapes exaggerated, all dancing across her line of sight. She reaches an ultimatum, the problems of yesterday long deceased.

As she strums the first notes on her guitar, preparing to launch into her infamously complicated riffs (how she can do that in her state is one of the strangest phenomena of life), she enters a new dimension of euphoria. One that belongs to her, her guitar, and her one true love,

heroin.

* * *

"Why are we at a Pussy Destroyer concert again?"

Piper Chapman can't believe she's counted, but Polly has asked that same question thirteen times in the last forty-five minutes. She's showing no sign of stopping.

"I mean," Polly continues, and Piper internally groans, "their music is shit and it gives me a fucking headache. They just scream. And everyone here is clearly off their face on something. This atmosphere is so uncivilised it's actually concerning. We have manners. We're polite. These people are anything but. And it's totally not fun that I'm third wheeling because Pete..."

Polly's incessant droning is enough to ruin the entire evening. It's also enough to project an incredibly pretentious image of themselves, and deep down this concerns Piper. From entering the arena, an overwhelming urge to impress others is dragged to the forefront of her priorities. She can't quite pinpoint why. Rainbow-haired, tattooed fanatics are singing desperate praises of worship to their leaders; Piper is anonymous to them, utterly insignificant. Flashing her perfectly yuppie grin wouldn't receive so much as a wink.

And yet, Piper disregards these facts. She's compelled by the calamity of her surroundings. The grunge, the danger, it's all so new to her. To have these fascinating, alternative individuals scribbling down her name in their good books is strangely exciting. Even though their interest in her is invariably non-existent, Piper is obsessed by this fantastical universe and the people living within. To her, creating a half-decent impression is crucial at this stage. Despite living on the opposite end of the spectrum, she feels a slight inclination of belonging, a yearning to be accepted by these people.

"And Alex Vause a grade-A asshole." Polly adds, determined to assert her point.

Piper eventually gives in, feeling it her duty to defend the rock star. "You don't know her personally, Pol."

"I've seen her interviews. She's so full of it."

"Doesn't mean you know her."

"Don't defend her, Piper." Polly scoffs. "She said 'I'm the fucking Zeus of rock.' On national television. Like, how conceited is that? She acts like she's the only person on that stage."

"It's justified. She's really, really good. The best in the band by far." Piper speaks through low, loving breaths, making no attempt to disguise her infatuation.

Alex Vause, captivating and mysterious, and oh-so-incredibly hot. Her voice, belting into the microphone, is hoarse, harsh, and yet smooth like silk. Deep and rustic, but soothing to the ears. It's incredible. Never lip synched, always live.

Gazing up at the flat screen, Piper watches the beautifully tragic lyrics flow from Alex's lips. Her solo. Piper finds her eyes locked firmly in position, and she's unable to tear them away. It's like she's been pushed, prodded, forced into a trance, and Alex isn't permitting her release. Even though Piper's never tasted it (and never will), Alex oozes a sex appeal that's undeniably addictive.

God, Piper would love to though. She'd lick it clean.

Polly blinks, slightly taken aback by Piper's dazed countenance. "Wha-do you have a crush on her?"

In a flash, Piper snaps into reality, and it's that exact moment when Lorna Morello resumes the reigns of the song, with Alex slipping into the backdrop.

"N-No!" She's too rapid fire in her response, and she knows it hasn't gone unnoticed. How could it not? Her next words are less eager, more controlled. "Of course I don't have a crush on her."

Polly smirks. "We all know you're a secret lesbian, Piper-"

"Bisexual." Piper corrects, painfully slow and painfully dismayed. The common misconception never ceases to irk her. "And it's not a secret. Everybody knows."

"Lesbian, bisexual, whatever. You're so full of shit. Just admit you bought us tickets so you could check out Alex Vause's ass." Now Polly's laughing.

"Who wants to check out Alex Vause's ass?" Larry crops up out of nowhere, two beer bottles in hand.

A mighty lover of the sweater vest, Larry is Piper's recent and decent beau. But it's there, standing in the amidst of an Alex Vause concert, can Piper completely see right through him, like a human X-Ray machine. From his sheepish, awkward smile to his old-fashioned, awkward clothing, Larry Bloom is like a stiff plank of wood nailed against the vibrant, blinding wallpaper of their surroundings. Even the beer bottles are nestled awkwardly in his hold. He squawks a safety net, a cozy blanket, the security Piper's family yearn for her to attain. It's all so dull, and completely juxtaposes the excitement around them.

She feels awful to perceive him in this way. She feels even more awful for subconsciously comparing him to a goddamn rock star. That's unfair. But being attracted to Alex, no. That can't be helped, and as such Piper can't possibly uphold any guilt.

"Nobody wants to check out Alex Vause's ass." Piper sends a glare in Polly's direction.

Larry chuckles. Piper's unsure if he's faking it; the twinge of annoyance in his eyes tells one story, but he sounds genuinely amused. "Well, Pipes. You're the resident bisexual. Should I feel threatened about the future of our relationship?"

Piper rolls her eyes to the heavens. "Just because I'm bisexual doesn't mean I want to fuck every person I see."

"But you want to fuck Alex Vause." Polly buts in, chuckling at Piper's mercy.

"Polly!"

"Humans can't exclusively like one person." Larry shrugs, smiling. "We're sexual creatures. If you've got a crush on her, I totally get why. She's hot. Don't feel bad about it."

As, dare she say, boring as Larry is, he's been the most supportive of her sexuality. The Chapmans, being a high-strung, upper-middle class clan, refuse to acknowledge the 'gay situation' (as her mother calls it) too much. But thankfully, Larry's remarks are one of admiration. Once, he'd even said: 'you being bi is so cool, Pipe. Now you understand where I'm coming from when I say boobs are hot.' Coming out to Larry hasn't hindered their bond, but has rather heightened it, strengthening the foundations of their relationship.

Nonetheless, his constant empathy catches Piper at a wrong turn. The fire remains ignited from Polly's mockery, and she finds herself snapping at Larry. "So I've got your permission to 'crush' on Alex Vause?"

When Larry's smile fades away (and Polly conveniently turns away from them), a trail of disappointment is left behind, serving to extinguish Piper's flame. She mentally degrades herself, forever detesting her foot-in-the-mouth disease. Her cruel, bitter side loves to come out and play, taunting and teasing and toying with her emotions, and she resents that. For a short time, it's like she transforms into another being, some kind of an evil entity, and can't recall on her dormant self for aid.

Damn. She's got issues.

"I'm sorry." She cringes, silently praying Larry forgives her for the umpteenth time. "I didn't mean that."

"It's fine." Larry sighs. "Let's just...enjoy the show."

Piper sighs too. "Yeah...let's do that."

* * *

Alex isn't much of a dancer.

She soars, strides, collapses on her knees, fingers zipping up and down the length of her guitar, but she doesn't dance as such. And her attire doesn't help. Ripped skinny jeans, a studded leather jacket and heavy boots always make a classic fashion statement in the universe of rock, but they weigh her down, causing a real sluggishness in her stage prescence. It's the perfect excuse for her non-existent dancing ability.

That doesn't matter. The stage is hers. She saunters across the surface, beads of sweat trickling down abalastar skin. Belting out an intense, high-tempo tune, her voice directly parallels the sweetness of Lorna's. Her guitar, battered and bruised by a passionate aggression, only heightens the intensity of her performance. She exudes a twisted, enigmatic charm, and the audience are smitten by it, forever swooning over her. They're mere mortals, owned by the invincible goddess stood before their eyes.

But she's a slave to her mind, always cast in captivity. And as the concert progresses, this possession takes an increasing hold. She can feel a dampness seeping through her high. The numbness is subsiding, leaving her thoughts frozen and vulnerable. She's suddenly craving the soothing waft of heroin, needing it to tie the loosening ends of her stability. It's all that she breathes, the ridiculous reality that she's living for.

She may own her performance, but she doesn't own herself.

But alas, the show must go on. That choice, like many others, isn't hers to make.

"This next song's an old one." She speaks into the microphone, her confidence little more than a farce. "If you don't know the inspiration behind this delightfully cynical tune, I highly recommend reading the 'Personal Life' section on my Wikipedia page." She forces out a laugh, and the auditorium reciprocates with an outcry.

"IT'S LESBIAN REQUEST DENIED, BITCHES!" Nicky, as characteristically jittery as always, can't possibly control her volume; her vocal chords have a resilience unbeknownst to any addict.

Damm. Alex needs what she's on.

Gina taps out the opening number on the keyboard. Nicky is hot on her tail, plucking erratically on the bass (not quite how it's supposed to go, but she's still shitfaced, so that can't be helped). This delivers instant signals to Alex, who plays a more restrained tone. Though she simply picks at the strings, the complexities of the composition certainly isn't absent. All very methodical, all highly concentrated (unlike Nicky). She re-enters her zone, her focus honing in, and the incessant taunting of her mind takes a temporary leave.

Lorna hums low and slow, her pitch soothing to the soul. Once Boo begins a rythmic beat of the drum, and Tricia resumes as Alex's backing guitarist, Lorna starts to sing.

"Lesbian Request Denied,

My lesbian request got denied...

Lesbian Request Denied,

My lesbian request got denied..."

Strangely, Alex is even in the mood to dance. Or, at the very least, to attempt it.

* * *

"What's the story behind this song, Pipes?" Larry wonders, sipping his beer. He swallows and pulls a face of mild disgust, the bitterness of the beverage overwhelming his taste buds.

Piper doesn't realize he's talking. She's too transfixed in the rawness of 'Lesbian Request Denied.' Alex's raspy, gritty voice harmonizes with Lorna's melodious tune, and the gradual build-up of intense, sporadic music allows Piper to see the tale unfold before her eyes. A teenage Alex Vause still finding her feet in the hike of life. Her sexuality is cast with contempt and hostility, not only from those around her, but from herself; predominantly from herself. With a slow, tentative drive towards acceptance comes the exploration, the adventure, the journeying into an unmarked territory. As more discoveries are made, Alex delves deeper in, faster, with an increasing enthusiasm. Soon enough, she's basking in her sexuality, thriving on the thrill that it brings. No matter what homophobia is thrusted in her face, she triumphs through the battle, shooting down her opponents with a bullet of insults.

"Pipes?"

Much to her dismay, Piper's focus on the explosive lyrics comes to a sudden halt. "Oh." She turns to Larry with a reluctance carefully guarded within her mind. "What were you asking?"

"Uh, the story." Noting his vague approach, Larry quickly continues. "Of the song. The song."

"I think she got suspended from school for being gay."

That was 'Lesbian Request Denied,' the stripped-down version. The basic, beta version absent of all the integral juiciness. The version where Piper effortlessly pretends she hasn't memorised the entirety of its backstory.

She only does that when Alex writes their songs.

"Wait." Larry frowns. "I could swear that's illegal."

"Probably." Piper responds, dry in her manner. "Ask your dad."

"What, right now? Should I text him? I should text him."

Larry's being his incessant hesitant self, and normally it doesn't bother Piper, but in this particular instance it does. Significantly. Her mind deviates from the concert - from Alex - and is instead filled with unnecessary conversation, a distraction persisting against even the optimum noise in the room. It's not nearly as frustrating as Polly's rambling, and yet the force is still enough to push Piper's buttons.

"Larry, the world won't stop spinning if you don't unveil this grandiose mystery."

Larry grins like a loon, invariably infatuated. "I love it when you're sarcastic."

Piper forces a pained smile as Larry leans in and presses a wet, sloppy kiss against her rigid cheekbone. Anything that isn't Alex somehow disintegrates into the background, and that includes Larry. His touch feels queer and almost foreign. It's an inexplicable sensation, because she's never even met Alex, but it's like a hold has snatched the leash of her life during this fucking concert, and her master is afar, oblivious of the strength she exerts. For Larry to kiss her in any way, shape or form isn't...well, right, even though Alex Vause doesn't know of her existence and undoubtedly never will. Like those crazed, jeering worshippers radiating an unbearable heat and stench.

It's depressing, really. Piper knows she's deserving of something more, something extraordinarily different.

"MY LESBIAN REQUEST GOT DENIED!

FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!

FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!"

Lorna Morello screams like a banshee, and Piper is astounded at her ability to sustain it. A tiny woman with the demeanour of an angel, yet one that contains a frightful insanity deep within, buried beneath the surface of her soft curls and ruby red lips. Piper is reminded of herself, in a way. An appearance of deception, like an illusionist cunningly abusing their tricks in a satirical reality. Not completely believable, but real enough to stimulate a false perception from those who wouldn't expect anything less. Except Lorna Morello is a disgustingly wealthy, disgustingly famous rock star that's known Alex since they were teenagers. And the more Piper contemplates that, the more it infuriates her. So they're not really the same, because Lorna is fluttering on stage, standing just inches away from her, and Piper isn't.

"FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!" Alex and Tricia chime in, keeping the backing vocals intact.

Piper feels a hot flush rise to her cheeks (as well as a slight dampness between her legs) as Alex continues her infuriated chant, recovering pent up grudges from a decade ago. It's just unfortunate that Lorna dominates the vocals. Granted, she's an exceptional singer, and despite Piper's exceptionally argumentative stance (or 'defending her rights,' as she prefers to call it), that case is impossible to win. But Alex deserves to take the lead when 'Lesbian Request Denied' is sung. It's her story to tell. Not Lorna's.

"Earplugs." Polly winces. "See, Piper? All scream."

"What?!" Piper loudly retorts, hearing impaired by the cacophony of chaos.

"IT'S ALL SCREAM!"

"FUCKING DENIED, IT GOT FUCKING DENIED!" The chorus remains, constantly cutting through any form of stability.

"WHAT?!" Piper questions, hardly wanting to indulge in a screeching fest. "YOU LIKE ICE CREAM?!"

"WHY ARE WE SCREAMING?!" Larry hollers, easily contesting Piper and Polly.

"WHAT?!" Polly retorts.

Piper exhales in a fit of frustration. She's left with little choice but to give in, certainly not needing to strain her voice. Swayed by the sheer power of 'Lesbian Request Denied' (and by Alex, because shit, those cool green eyes are hypnotic), she is snatched away once more, her consciousness squeezed through a funnel, filtering out what isn't the rock goddess reclaiming her soul.

***

Other then their music, The Pussy Destroyers are renowned for frequent on-stage coversation.

"...so the unconscious farmer wakes up and says 'dude, he's not an eggplant, he's retarded!" Nicky exclaims, waving her arms with great motion, sunglasses leaning from the bridge of her nose.

She's anticipating a flurry of applause, or even a cymbal crash from Boo, but the response is noncommittal.

Instead, it's Tricia Miller that's bent over in a fit of giggles. "Yo, you're always sayin' that boring ass joke."

"It's fuckin' funny, man!" Nicky retorts, a mild aggression creeping into her manner.

"Originality is obviously not your forte, Nichols." Alex adds, chuckling darkly, and it sends the fans tumbling into a whirlwind. They cry out in pure pleasure, the astonishment of Alex actually speaking beyond what they can comprehend.

So she's not particularly talkative. Does that matter?

A shrill of a voice clambers above the rest, desperate to make their presence heard. "V. A. U. S. E. ARMY! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY!"

It's only for a split second, but Alex feels a tsunami of an ego flushing through her body, and her gnarling depression is ceased in its tracks. She cocks a thin eyebrow and smirks stupid; an expression reserved just for her, even at her lowest of days. An expression with a quality of eternal smugness ingrained within, one that can never be denied nor detested. An expression that rejoices hearts and shatters them all the same, because it can never keep the pieces intact. Iconically Alex Vause.

"Looks like we've got a Vauseinator in the room."

The Vauseinators. Fans of hers, and exclusively hers. Not of the band. Easily identifiable by their militarial chant.

The same voice screeches out; they're clinging to this unforgettable acknowledgement, refusing to let it falter away. "OH MY GOD ALEX VAUSE SPOKE TO ME! I AM FUCKING DYING! V. A. U. S. E. ARMY FOR LIFE!"

"Hey, what about me?" Boo jumps in, grinning. "Would you fucking die if I spared you a passing glance?"

"She'd commit suicide from the atrocity of your fat ass making fuckin' eye contact." Nicky drawls out, arrogance leaking from her smart mouth like a faulty tap.

"Oh, you wound me, Nichols."

"Over the line, Nicky." Gina scolds, narrowing her eyes.

Ever the comedienne, nobody is a stranger to Nicky Nichols' obscenities, and Alex is no exception. Most claim her true talent lies within snarky, obnoxious quips and innuendo that rests uneasily on the border of unpolitical correctness. It's what her name lies upon. And yet, being a bassist isn't simple arithmetic - especially when it equals a renowned rock band - so Nicky is undoubtedly a master of the musical equation. Even if Alex is more proficient in her calculations.

Never one to establish her professionalism, Nicky flips Gina off. An explosion of laughter detonates, filling the auditorium to the brim. Gina huffs in contempt as Nicky grins cheekily. Combined with her oversized sunglasses and the resemblance to a badly behaved school child is uncanny. It gives an strange innocence to her manner, and that's despite how she's a twentysomething year old woman who's snorted a good few lines and bam, reality is obliterated before her eyes and it's crumbling down at her feet and it's constantly shifting from nonsensical to hysterical and that's anything but innocent.

Fuck. Alex really needs what she's on.

"So we got one more song tonight," Lorna says, "and boy, oh boy, is it a treat. I'm gonna be sittin' this one out, Trish'll be takin' over on vocals and Vause is backin' her up."

"Because 'Finger in the Dyke' obviously undermines your vow of purity and chasity." Boo snorts. "We all know you're a bad little Christian, Morello. Ain't no pulling the wool over our dyke-ass eyes."

Lorna gasps, scoffs, snarls by slight. "Fuck you, Boo."

"Jesus, no beef on stage!" Gina intervenes, ever the kill joy for entertainment. "Now c'mon, we've got a fuckin' concert to finish."

"Couldn't agree more." Alex murmurs, and the fans strike again, girls shuddering and crying and praying for just one measly glimpse of her, a minuscule spec of eye contact.

And now that her ego boost has worn off, all she's itching for is her beautiful, sweet, perfectly pure powder.

Who would realize she doesn't give a shit about them?

* * *

"_Who-oh-oh, I want my finger in the dyke..._

_Oh, oh-oh...finger in the dyyyyke..."_

As Tricia finalizes the lyrics of 'Finger in the Dyke,' the instrumental comes to a slow finale (aside from Nicky, who finishes a couple of seconds later, always thriving on deviating from the designated music). Alex's hand breaks away from the strings, and it's that moment when she feels a wave of relief washing through her needy body. It's as if her self-combustion has been repaired by the miraculous mechanic of the drugs; even just the thought of them is enough to get the gears grinding, giving motion to her lust, her hope, her euphoria.

"YOU WERE FUCKING AWESOME, NEW YORK!" Nicky howls, fist-pumping the air.

Even if Nicky Nichols is still high (which Alex thinks not, realistically), they'll snort those post-performance lines together. It's tradition.

A call-and-response arises, starting from the left side of the area and shifting to the right.

"WE ARE THE VAUSEINATORS!"

"WE ARE THE VAUSEINATORS!"

"ALEX VAUSE IS OUR GOD!"

"ALEX VAUSE IS OUR GOD!"

Alex is breathless. Sweat is pooling down her body, and it's soaked her shirt right through. Reaching three mentally challenging, physically draining hours of performing can take a toll on anybody, but Alex's only energy supplement has been inaccessible for what feels like absolute eternity (perhaps she should start working out, as per Diane's proposition.)

She throws her head back and stretches out her arms, encompassing the glory bestowed upon her. Maybe it's got to her head and maybe it hasn't, but she finds herself functioning on an unquenchable thirst to fuel her ego; not that she adores the praise or anything, because that's certainly not the case. It pains her, panics her. She's unworthy of their worship, undeserving of her obscure status as their god. She's a diabolical example of omnibenevolence; them one thing she's equipped to love is goddamn fucking heroin. At least omnipresence is her suitor, since she's quite literally everywhere, showcased in all four corners of the globe.

"We are The Pussy Destroyers!" She shouts loud and clear, the most vibrant she's been all evening, unable to shake the anticipation of restarting her high. "Thank you and goodnight!"

"V. A. U. S. E. ARMY!" The audience booms as a collective, unifying their desires, their dreams, their insane appetite for Alex. "V. A. U. S. E ARMY!"

"I think our fans may be blind," Nicky begins, sarcasm bleeding from her words, "cos' there are other people on stage, and they ain't-"

"Jesus, Nichols!" Gina groans, and Nicky flips her off once again, smirking with an obscenely infuriating smirk that many, many women instantly recognize. Not quite as iconic as Alex's, but still containing a reputable claim to fame in her own right.

Well, that's another concert over with, Gina penalizing Nicky and all.

Now Alex needs her fucking drugs.


	2. The Champion of Pussy Licking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex's addiction is another blow for her already-decrepit relationship with manager Red. Meanwhile, watching The Pussy Destroyers causes Piper to think about something important.

As The Pussy Destroyers make their descent backstage, Red is - as always - the first to rush over, speeding as rapid as her high heels can sustain.

"Nicky?!" She exclaims, reaching the edge of the stairs. "Where is my daughter?!"

Boo is the first to enter. "Fuckin' Christ, Reznikov," She chuckles, stressing the humour behind the scenario, "couldn't make that favouritism more obvious, could ya?"

"I am your manager, yes, but I also have a duty as her mother. And I must uphold it first and foremost."

"Figuratively."

"Yes, but-" as Nicky appears behind Boo, with Alex close by her side, precious guitars on their backs, Red's eyes twinkle with adoration, and all responsibilities as the band's manager dissipate without a trace, "my little l'venok!"

Nicky is, quite evidently, the apple of Red's eye. It's highly unprofessional, which is odd, since Red is typically meticulous with these sorts of things. But Alex, despite all her despicable demons, knows Nicky's pain is even more excruciating then her own. It's a hurricane of distress and the winds are ever changing, slicing Nicky's mental stability in two. So Alex does understand Red's reasoning; Nicky Nichols needs her, needs the whirling mass of insanity and addiction stunted in its tracks, because heroin is fantastic for that, sure, but it's not as if Red knows about it. She sees it compolsory to prioritize Nicky's demands (and occasionally, over the band's own) and feels inclined to nurture her, oblivious to the alternative.

Red lunges forward and grapples Nicky's shoulders. "You were fantastic, Nicky." She coddles, shaking her a little. "Zvezda moya."

Nicky beams, revelling in the attention. "Thanks, ma."

Sometimes, though, Alex can't withstand that boiling envy when she watches them interact. She's reprimanded for her disastrous choices, always pummeled by Red's iron fist, whereas Nicky is forgiven; time after time, fuck up after fuck up. There's a disparity in the way they're handled, because Red spoils and indulges Nicky, while she makes Alex feel like the most insignificant spec of dust on the highest helf. That's the issue, really. While Red is a brilliant manager, her irrationality can't be ignored.

She's highly unprofessional, but she's Galina fucking Reznikov, one of the best in her business. Rules don't apply.

"Your darling 'daughter' eats heroin for breakfast." Gina grumbles, scanning the two through narrowed eyes, and Alex snorts in a twisted amusement; surely, being the second favourite - like Gina is - isn't a particularly pleasant feeling.

"I commend all of your efforts tonight," Red shifts away from Nicky, instantly resuming her businesslike stance, "but your performances must remain consistently excellent. After all, this gig is booked every Friday until the end of November. Keep that in mind. Now, on Monday we will be running through a collaboration with Stella Carlin." A simultaneous groan from Nicky and Trisha cuts through Red's demands. "Yes, I know you none of you are keen, and quite frankly I'm not either, but this deal is isindisputable in solidifying your Australian fanbase."

"She's gay. Does it for me." Boo figures.

"Yeah, s'alright," Lorna shrugs, "she ain't so bad."

"What? She's a fuckin' cunt, Lorn." Nicky scoffs, aggressively pushing up her thick mane of hair. "Claims she's gone 'down under' more then me. Now while I do appreciate the euphemism there, she's still talkin' out her ass. I'm the champion of pussy licking, a-and if she wants to fight me then-"

"Bruise your ego, did she?" Red teases. She's ever the voice of reasoning when Nicky's involved. "Go and get some rest, Rocky. You're not in the boxing ring just yet."

"Yes, mother." Nicky rolls her eyes, secretly thriving on Red's doting.

"Relax, everybody." Red commands, turning to the others. "I am proud of you all."

The band tiredly utter their appreciative comments, with Trisha making her mark by awkwardly patting Red on the back (she's still relatively new, but Alex figures she's got a claim to 'daughter' status too). They trudge towards the dressing rooms, and Alex is about to stalk their trail when Red captures her attention, stopping her trek.

"You did a good job tonight, Vause." She commends with a curt nod, but she makes little attempt to restrain her smile.

The swirling pool of darkness has rapidly crept into Alex's brain. She's crashing from the sky; it's only a matter of seconds before she'll be swallowed whole, sinking into the bottomless ocean of misery. It's like her euphoria has been taken hostage by that incessant negativity, and the only key to its temporary release is an injection, an inhale, a snort, a high of some degree. For anything positive to enter her ears isn't believed, the pessimism obliterating her self-worth.

But instead, she laughs the compliment off, as she always does; always masking the bitterness inside. "Thanks. I'm exhausted though."

Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed stage assistants scurry over to attend to Alex, seizing the opportunity of her being alone. Four, five, maybe ten, Alex can't tell. She's too enveloped in her emotional void to feel any true connection with reality. She can feel one remove her microphone, another grappling her guitar, and two of them slide off her jacket, but she's indifferent towards them. Just like that and they're gone again, but that gnawing insecurity has only just begun. They're all clones of a common idealization, an admiration, in which Alex experiences on an hourly basis. It's disillusioning, monotonous and only offers an unfortunate reminder of her weary existence.

It's amazing how fame, fortune and an extensive reputation makes the world collapse at your feet. A sudden somebody, rising from the ashes of a nobody; once broke, a music geek and a deformative freak (fifteen years later and Jessica Wedge still weedles her way into Alex's insecurities).

"But I know you snorted that heroin. I fucking saw the baggie on your dressing table, so don't you dare bullshit me."

Well fuck.

Red's voice drops an octave; it's dark, haunting and deafening. A voice that proposes enormous threat just by the sheer atrocity of words, and it's that sudden devation that takes Alex by complete surprise.

Red has one rule, and one rule only; no drugs. Alex can't possibly abide by that.

"I just..." Alex tries to muster up an excuse of any kind, but somehow can't find herself sweet-talking her way out. "I'm not in a good place, Red."

"You are never in a good place!" Red snaps, eyes wide with terror. "So ungrateful! Look at what you have got!"

"God, okay-"

"Do not give me attitude! Time after time, I am like fucking Russian maid that cleans up your shit! And that is not my job!"

"I'm paying you to manage me." On the outside, Alex is frightfully cool, but her temper is bubbling beneath the surface. She's hardly in the mood to clash with Red. "Dealing with this," she gestures to herself, evidently bored and frustratingly cocky in her manner, "is management."

Thankfully, she's still good at keeping a grasp on her emotions.

The drugs haven't sizzled her mind completely. Not yet.

"Do you pay me to deal with your constant speeding fines?!" Red, on the other hand, is quite willing to let loose, unleashing the tyrannical beast inside. "How about your big mouth?! 'I'm the fucking Zeus of rock!' 'I only bang women with a hole as big as Calcutta-'"

"Can't fault me for that one, Red." Alex shrugs. "Nicky said that."

Red ignores the snide remark, because god forbid if anyone were to badmouth Nicky. "Your addiction was all over the press! I spent seven months negotiating with those vultures! Oh, and have we forgotten about the time you stuck your-"

Alarm bells ring relentlessly in Alex's mind, and it pitches her into a panic. There's a strong probability they're being overheard, and Alex's worst nightmare is to have her most dirtiest little secret unveiled to the world, like a dramatic curtain reveal gone disastrously wrong.

"Red-"

"-your career was practically over!"

"The pig came out unscathed, didn't it?!" Alex exclaims, her paranoia peaking.

"Your reputation didn't! That half-assed apology would hardly convince a malyutka!"

"I was high!"

"You're always fucking high!"

Silence. Alex glares tragically into Red's eyes, a searing pain shooting through her skull. Red stares back, ice cold, carefully calculating her final move.

"One more fuck up and I resign as this band's manager." She growls, her voice terrifyingly low. "I am sick of this bullshit."

It's nothing Alex hasn't heard before, but everybody has their limits. Including Red. And Alex knows she's done just enough to catapult Red's limit into the stratosphere.

"You wouldn't do that, Red." Alex shakes her head in disbelief. "Not to us. Not to Nicky. We all need you."

"Nicky is off that filth." Red hisses. "She told me so herself."

"What?!" Alex exclaims, and the exchange reheats. "She's lying, Red-"

"Don't." Red raises a warning finger. "My Nicky wouldn't lie to me. She wouldn't dare."

Alex exhales, exhausted and frustrated by the whole ordeal. She's weeping out for her ecstasy, that beautifully ruined reality. Maybe she's shaking and maybe she's not, but she's invariably cast in the cage, once again captivated in the reigns of her mind. Maybe she's sweating and maybe she's not, but she's yearning, itching, praying, in fucking desperation, and there's only one answer to her call. And Red's not helping because she's adamant in her belief, knowing - not thinking, or even considering - that Nicky's not shaking, sweating, abhorrent in her needs. Too optimistic, because Nicky's exactly Alex Vause and worse (perhaps not). Red's not helping because she's forcing Alex away, forcing her over the crumbling edge and down, down, down into the lurches of despair.

"Back to rehabilitation, huh?" Red sighs, no longer inflamed by the inferno but freezing up in a chilling disappointment. "For god's sake, Vause. And I thought you were getting better. I truly did."

"I will, Red. I promise."

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

All her lies and all Nicky's lies interweave into a spider web she can't untangle herself from, so if she's to cope with such a burden, she really needs to get high. Maybe laid, too.

Actually, that'd be nice.

***

It's only after the concert that Piper realizes 'V.A.U.S.E ARMY' is, in fact, not exclusively a metaphorical phrase

Thousands stumble out of the auditorium like a herd gone haywire. Utterly intoxicated, their obscenities is catastrophic for the tranquility of the night. Incessant chants and demeaning groans clash, creating a nondescript clash of horrific noise. It's terrifyingly intimidating. All stomping in the same direction, like an army squadron at optimum attack, heading straight for the enemy. Only the significant lack of uniformity establishes the difference between them, because it's the epitome of disorganized insanity. Piper figures that's what makes it so frightening, and yet fabulously domineering at the same time. A real sense of control is generated, but rather than the mechanical nature of soldiers, this control is strangely amusing, relatable almost. This is an army of people suffering a collective struggle, yet a struggle they flip on the opposing side and utilise it to ignite their own power, to snatch back that dominance. Terrifyingly intimidating, but perhaps necessary in such a world where it's even more terrifying to be themselves.

Piper, Polly and Larry are sandwiched between it all, stunted in their attempts to slide out. A wretched odour combining cigarettes, alcohol and something horrifically inexplicable (Piper doesn't care to know what) pollutes their surroundings and drifts into their noses. It's encompassed by the sheer volume of the crowd. Heat radiates from bodies, forming a cocoon of warmth, and Piper finds herself dripping with sweat despite it being a cool fall evening (or morning, who knows?) Alongside the obvious claustrophobia and it's all a rather unpleasant experience; an unnecessary challenge following a fabulously exhausting rock concert, the final hurdle in their training.

Nonetheless, as disgustingly obscene as it is, it's still new to Piper, and that strengthens the magnetic field that attracts her fascination and wonder. It doesn't repel her; not in the slightest.

"We are the Vausinators, we are the Vauseinators..." Larry murmurs to himself, the endearing chant engrained into his head, "Alex Vause is our god, Alex Vause is our god..."

"That...wasn't so hideous actually." Polly sounds, dare Piper think it, somewhat impressed.

"See?" Piper flashes a victory smile, satisfied that she's achieved one over Polly. "What did I tell you? Alex Vause has the magical touch."

Polly snorts. "So the papers have said."

Piper resists the sneaking urge to roll her eyes, hardly wanting another debate on the matter, and somewhat irked by her ultimate lack of success with Polly. "You're still hellbent on disliking her, aren't you?"

"You're still hellbent on fucking her." Polly swiftly fires her comeback, almost definitely seeking another debate on the matter. "And anyway, I thought the band was half-decent. Not her. She's overhyped."

"That's not true. She's an amazing musician."

Polly quickly glances at Larry, and Piper reciprocates. He's aimlessly gazing around, awestruck by the magnitude of bodies surrounding them. Once Polly determines the coast is clear, and that Larry's awareness is completely cast away, she leans towards Piper, grinning mischievously.

"You would so throw yourself at her if you got the opportunity."

"Fuck off, no I wouldn't. You know me, Pol." Piper insists, her smile still lingering. It's a half-hearted attempt to manipulate her way out of Polly's interrogation.

"Exactly. I know you're a secret whore that's looking for another bad boy or girl to shake a little spice on the side."

"Okay, I admit that I have had my fair share of spice, but no longer is it my condiment. I do not need condiments to satisfy myself."

"Because without condiments, the meal is just bland."

Piper squints, rapidly deciphering Polly's metaphor. "So you're implying Larry is the bland meal?"

"Don't bullshit me, Piper. I'm only implying what you think. You've got a thing for asshats with tattoos."

"I do not have 'a thing' with people of that sort." Piper scoffs, and Polly cocks an eyebrow, not having it in the slightest. "You're putting words into my mouth."

"Whatever. Just admit that you're disillusioned with your dating life and we'll forget this conversation happened."

It's frustrating, but Polly evidently knows Piper far better than she anticipated. Maybe better than she knows herself, because she's unsure if she even does. It's stemmed from her sexuality, and that's already torn off the band-aid securing her privileged normality, opening fresh wounds that requires a far more durable bandage. A bandage not easily obtained. Now, at a relative tender age of twenty-two, she's growing tiresome and disillusioned towards the life she's required to lead; what the Chapmans have laid out before her eyes without taking a single pause to even contemplate her needs, and that, she's gradually coming to realize, is tragic. It's like a death sentence of the Piper Elizabeth Chapman she's never explored, the version of her that may not necessarily be a version after all, but the real her. So perhaps she's been living, breathing, surviving as a fabricated idealization of herself all along, never contacting the rebellious, adventurous and pleasure-seeking side until tonight, at a world-renowned lesbian rock band's concert (even though she's slyly obsessed over them - and one person in particular - as of recent).

Maybe Polly's attempting to suggest just that. It's like Piper's a part of this army, yet never confirmed her enrollment. The prospect fills her with utter elation.

"Piper, haven't you got work?" Larry queries, and Piper feels like she's already been outcasted from her fellow troops, because there's this monotony about him, about her, that's downcast in her awakening. It draws a firm black line between fully realizing her potential in hell, and still remaining in purgatory. And even that's typically tedious.

"What? No." Piper reassess her situation for a moment. "At least, I don't think so. It's a Friday night."

"Well," Larry checks his watch, "it's a Saturday morning now."

Piper's eyes widen with a terrible shock, and her casual contemplation transfixes into a chaotic rush of anxiety. Her inexperience at these sorts of events (only ever attending one late night concert in her college years), as well as the engulfing, captivating nature of her wondrous experience, has caused work to be displaced from her mind. It's been sent straight to the bottom of the barrel of her priorities, and if her future as a barmaid in a noise blasting, alcohol-fueled, moderately clean nightclub is to be kept, it needs to be rescued from below. Quickly. And she really, really needs this job, because Carol and Bill are only willing to support her so much.

"Motherfucker!" She curses, and Larry visibly winces, failing to refrain from antagonizing her once again. "My shift starts at one!"

"You better get your ass over there, Pipes!" Polly exclaims. "You know what that Mexican bitch is like!"

"First of all, you're being unconsciously biased. Aleida's Puerto Rican, not Mexican. And second of all-"

"Oh my god, who gives a shit?" Polly abruptly cuts Piper off. "Just get out of this crowd."

"Isn't that what we've been failing to do for the last half-an-hour?"

"Jesus, Piper, just shove past them."

"That's not common courtesy, Polly."

"You being here tonight directly hypocricises that. Look around. Does this," Polly, in the centimetres of room she has, gestures to the unruly crowd locking them in, "epitomize 'common courtesy?'"

"Would you stop belittling everybody else here?"

Larry clears his throat. "Uh, Pipes, I really think you should-"

"Yes, thank you, Larry!" Piper exclaims, exasperation taking its hold, patience wearing silm. "Fuck it, I'm shoving past!"

She shifts forward, nudging the person in front. As she attempts to prise her way through, unforgivingly thrashing against the people obscuring her goal, she hears Polly call out 'embrace your inner rebel, you whore!' Low, slurred chuckles hum, sending shockwaves through her ribcage. Piper groans, agitation broiling; she's outnumbered a hundred thousand to one, and that's a battle she can't possibly win. On the inside of the cohort but not quite, fending her way into desolation, back to the bleak destiny of her pathetic existence.

Because she needed to do it sooner or later.

***

Once the stage assistants finish attending to the band, they're left to their own devices. Each of them partakes in their post-concert celebrations, but they all differ from the other. Lorna admires herself in the mirror, often utilising the opportunity to touch up her heavy makeup (not the way her artist does it, because he's clearly never heard of eyeliner). Trisha continues strumming on her guitar, always finding difficulty in parting with it; music is quite literally the food of her love. Gina enjoys keeping on her toes, reorganizing the dressing room for whomever is set to use it next (the others joke that it's a blatantly obvious attempt to satisfy Red). Big Boo eats something, something else and something else; nobody is willing to question what, fearing the tiniest reference to her weight would concoct a thunderstorm (unless it's Nicky, because she really couldn't give a shit). Nicky is infuriatingly rapacious; like a tiger preparing to maul its prey, she's either coming on to Lorna if they're dating, or dialling 'one of her girls' if not. The others know it's a front; that seemingly endless list of women can't demolish her crippling cravings, the need to pump and pump and pump,

that fabulously wretched heroin into her body.

Alex is the same. She knows women would kill to caress her, to kiss her, to be fucked by her. They'd kill just to receive one minuscule sampling of attentiveness. Only, that post-concert indulgence is partisan in Alex's eyes; an added bonus as it were. Drugs speak to her in a way women can't. They refrain from stimulating drama, but rather place a psychological clamp on it. They're not demanding, desperate or of relative cruelty, and they're certainly not something Alex needs to substantiate commitment to. Whether she does or she doesn't, drugs are loyal and true, and they'll never abandon her. They'll never cease to heighten her happiness. Even if they're abducted by those sadistic rehabilitation programs, Alex sets out to rescue them. Or maybe they're rescuing her. Either way, the bonds are mutaulistic and elastic, possible to stretch but impossible to snap. It's a bond women can't compete with, no matter how hard they try.

It's unfortunate that Red is exercising her reigns, and at the moment she's wrapped wrapped them around Alex, preventing her from making any gallop within her reach. Like an animal held in human captivity, Red has stripped her most basic essentials, and the drugs are, of course, at the very centre of that.

She's just outside their dressing room, and yet that horrific, ominous feeling starts to consume her body and soul alike once more, bringing upon that dreaded darkness to all her senses. So she waits, back against the wall, neck craning upwards, as she tries to keep herself sane; waiting to forget all about Red and her bullshit threats, waiting to pump and pump and pump,

that fabulously wretched heroin into her body.

But inside, of course, they're oblivious to Alex's panic. All too absorbed in their entertainment, The Pussy Destroyers are blind whilst Alex can see (ironic, really). Lorna's blind, Boo's blind, Tricia's blind, Gina's blind, and Nicky's blind to the struggles outside of her own. It's so excruciatingly extreme that Alex believes they've always been impartial to anything looming on the edge of their bubbles, ever since they've risen to rock domination, and that's one of the copious sanctions fame conducts. It changes people, crawling its way into their heads and hearts and stamping down until there's a firm imprint of something sardionically cruel; Alex can admit that firsthand, and that acceptance has helped to cure her blindness.

So they persist with their routines, never truly seeing.

Lorna glosses over her lipstick as Nicky continues to hurl crude comments her way. Tricia, still preoccupied with her guitar, refrains from retracting her attention whilst Boo smugly watches the scene play out. Gina stops scuttling about and sits beside Lorna, seemingly fascinated by her rigorous makeup routine. Once Lorna finishes, Gina leans forward and pats her shoulder in an act of accord.

"Sweet singing, Morello. You really got em' going tonight."

Lorna, eyes still locked on the mirror, pops a piece of gum into her mouth and chomps loud, her mouth opening and closing with every chew. "Well I got the skills, don't I? I got the tits, the ass, the voice. I'm the whole fuckin' package."

"Completely agree with you there, doll." Nicky pulls her sunglasses off to get a clearer view of Lorna's dangerously exposed cleavage. She gapes profusely, her eyes wide and mesmerised by the sight. "Because those are gigantic fuckin' milk duds."

Boo sniggers at Nicky's indiscreet perversion. "You're a disgusting cretin, Nichols. I'm surprised Lorna hasn't filed for sexual assault." She turns to Lorna. "Or have you, my dear Italiano compatriot?"

"Nah." Lorna turns to Boo, finding freedom from her gaze. "We got a very special friendship going. A friendship you know nothin' about."

"As Lord of the Lesbians, I proclaim that if consuming one's pussy is the integral part of a friendship, then oh, is yours special indeed."

"Hey!" Nicky exclaims, a shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. "What did you do to deserve that knighthood?"

"Upholding my duty as a queer icon to the world."

"You ain't the only gay in the fuckin' village, Boo. We're all playin' a decent round of softball at the YMCA."

"Aside from Morello, cos' she prefers a good old baseball bat." Boo smirks, her ammunition on the brink of launching. "Alex's baseball bat, to be precise."

Nicky's near constant cockiness dissipates, and it unveils an overwhelming, persistent insecurity. "J-J-Jesus, man!" She stammers, blinking ferociously, as though she's already whisked away on the magic carpet of heroin. "I don't need that image, alright?!"

"Quit bringin' that up, Boo." Lorna pipes in, assuming her own defense. "It was ten years ago. Get over it."

"Yo, wait." Tricia frowns, peering up from her guitar. "I'm confused. What happened?"

"Lorna sucked Alex's cock." Gina shrugs, unbearably nonchalant.

"What the fuck, Gina?!" Nicky snaps, temper flaring, voice bellowing.

The Pussy Destroyers don't have telepathic tendencies by any means, but everyone exchanges a puzzled, concerned glance that queries Nicky's sudden outburst. It's that lighthearted banter which truly solidifies their unity as a band. But sometimes, a line is crossed too wide for anyone's liking, and an unbearably churning tension starts to be stirred. The confusion is the worst of it, for they're thrusted into an uncomfortable unknown, and it's potentially damaging to their future careers. Perhaps there's an excess of obnoxious, argumentative characters (Nicky and Boo are that match made in mayhem) which stimulates a magnetic repulsion, and that brews those sporadic, dangerous clashes.

"Well shit..." Trisha cringes, guilt plaguing her countenance. "Didn't know that. Sorry I asked."

"Hey, guys." Alex strolls in, and everybody suspiciously stares her way, like deers caught in blistering headlights.

Lorna cracks a sickly smile. "Ohhh, Vausey-Vausey...where've ya been?"

Where hasn't she been? Being whisked away on a journey of plummeting ruin is quite the integral experience. Pressurized into confronting her innermost terrors, it's like she's spinning on the world's axis and can't take a break, because it's the journey of a lifetime and surely that shouldn't be stopped. But during the course of her adventure, it seems as though a ruthless battle of wit has occurred, and everybody recalls their weaponry once Alex gets her goddamn shit together and finalizes her destinationless travel. It couldn't be more blatant; Lorna is faking her cheery charms (more than usual), Trisha hesitantly twirls the ends of her cornrows and Nicky is - by an extreme rarity - withdrawn from the others and appears adamant in not making eye contact.

Alex's eyebrow shoots up, and her query sounds minutely blunt, but she's not one to consider that. "Okay, what the fuck is going on?"

"Nothing that addresses your concern, our great leader." Boo snarks.

Alex rolls her eyes as the others begin conversing amongst themselves. She steps towards Nicky, who's propped up against the wall, arms constricted across her chest, and stares solemnly into space. Alex leans beside her, and the two friends stand in a strange silence. They're both as fucked up as each other, really. What with the drink and the drugs - oh, the drugs - and the countless rows of women unleashed into their precious territory, it's spiralling out of their hands. Alex knows what's happening; she knows the clock is slowly ticking down, and an ultimatum will be faced, time threatening to pause and no longer play. They're both as fucked up as each other, because if decisive action is to take its course, if the clock is to rewind, parting ways is their best bet, and neither is selflessly selfish enough to do that.


	3. Multitasking With Your Morals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A volatile Nicky convinces Alex to go clubbing. Alex assess a pent-up, persistent animosity lasting since her teenage years.

Alex sighs, guilty as charged, and time continues its deafening descent into oblivion, because she's no good for Nicky and Nicky's no good for her, but they stick together through the worst and, albeit occasionally, the best.

"Are you okay, Nicky?" It even feels foreign to address Nicky by her namesake; surnames have been their game ever since they were children. "You're weirdly quiet. I'm so used to getting my eardrums destroyed with a mouthful of Manhattan all the time." It's a wonder how Alex can retain a straight face at that comment, but she manages.

Nicky's the one to smile instead; faint, wry, and with a twinkle of smugness, yet a smile nevertheless. "You never fail to make me feel less of an asshole then you, Vause."

Alex laughs, and the looming unease between them disintergrates as quickly as it formed. Even if Nicky's deterring the subject (which isn't uncommon), Alex is well versed in contending with that; refrain from probing and relax into the conversation, which is usually women, sex with women, music or drugs, because they're even addicted to discussing them. It's obviously worked since Nicky unhooks her arms, clenches a fist and holds it out, knuckles slightly paleing by the pressure. Alex bumps it with her own, and she can't help but smugly think they called us the lesbo-freaks, but look at us now, we're so fucking cool, even if it's highly questionable. Which it is. So questionable to the point where Alex is now querying her degree of 'coolness,' and that horrifically familiar distress starts to drip into her mind like droplets of rain.

"So we, uh, headin' to the clubs to pick up some pussy?" Nicky casually asks as she slides her sunglasses back on, acting as if she hadn't been cast into an unbearable strop moments ago.

"You have a girlfriend." Alex chuckles, always bemused by Nicky's antics.

"Meant you can pick up some pussy. I'll just be your wingwoman, eh? Like I'm livin' in the shadows."

"Honestly, I just wanted to keep a low profile tonight. We can snort a few lines at my place. I might call an escort as well. I'm horny as fuck."

"Bor-ring!" Nicky whines, and Alex rolls her eyes again, unable to suppress her frustration. "C'mon, Vause. Escort pussy ain't no fun. Even prossie pussy doesn't live up to its high quality expectation. And I have had my very fair share of prossie pussy."

"I'm just...feeling antisocial."

"Correction, you are feeling like a lazy fuck."

"Am I not allowed to rest?" Alex scoffs. "We've just finished a two-and-a-half hour concert. And what did mommy say about getting that essential beauty sleep?"

"Hey, fuck off, alright?" Nicky interjects, grinning. "At least your real mom didn't change her middle name to 'cunt' the second she squeezed you outta' her vagina."

"Marka changed it from 'narcissistic-assface?'"

"Nah, that's her surname. Stuck in the hyphen and everything."

"Things haven't got any better, huh?" Alex frowns, her mood growing grim. Despite the colossus demon gnarling at her conscious, at least she doesn't need to seek a replacement parent.

Nicky chuckles bitterly. "See, my family's like the solar system, right? Marka's the sun because everything revolves around her, Les is the moon because he likes disappearing every thirty days or so to fuck his latest mistress, and I'm Pluto, disregarded as anything of relevance since 2006. It's all a constant, Vause. The solar system ain't gonna change, is it?"

Before Alex can comment, Boo swoops in wicked sharp, overhearing the last of their conversation. "You were relevant in 2006? Shocker. And I always thought they stopped giving a shit around the 2000 mark."

"Aw, you remembered. You got an eight year anniversary gift to go with that? I'd sure appreciate the sentiment."

"Oh, well I've got an extensive collection of toys that you and Frenchy will be most entertained by."

"I ain't allowin' that, Nichols." Lorna, never seeing through the circulating satire, folds her arms in an act of opposition. "No more kinky shit, ya hear me? I like it traditional."

"Baby, c'mon," Nicky pouts. She scooches to Lorna's side and sneaks an arm around her petite waist, drawing her in close. "And here's me thinkin' ya like the kinky shit. Remember when I gagged ya, doll? Ah, good times."

"No, no! You ain't talkin' about this in front of everyone! First it was the blowjob, and now-"

"And swiftly changing the subject to something of the far less repulsive nature."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, Nicky."

"Heh. Sure, kid."

Alex attentively views the exchange, and when Nicky grins and captures Lorna's lips in a sloppy kiss, she can't help but feel a twinge of concern arising in her chest. Whether it's because her two best friends are flaunting their flawed relationship, exposing beyond what's necessary to her ears, or because Lorna just so subtly references that incident (Nicky didn't speak to them for nine months after that), Alex is in no denial of them being the root of her fresh fears. If Nicky still bares that grudge on her shoulders, then she's doing a diabolical job of keeping it hidden. But it's not just that, no. Alex is somewhat conflicted as to why, when Nicky and Lorna display any form of affection, it stimulates something bizarrely unnerving inside. She knows navigating the trenches of a relationship isn't exactly her area of expertise, and it's not as though she's ever been agonisingly desperate to do so, because heroin has always been her best girlfriend. And yet, there's still that tiny element of hesitance nestled in the back of her mind, and when she's eyewitness to those painstakingly farcial acts of romance, she's pulled aside and asked is it actually healthy to feel this fucking alone? Is it actually healthy to keep this cycle going?

Boo scoffs, and Alex is dragged out of her tragic headspace. "And Nichorello are, unsurprisingly, once again acting like attention-seeking whores. I can smell the desperation from over here."

Nicky pulls out of the kiss, that familiar teasing smirk sneaking across her lips. "Sure that ain't you, Boo? Have you ever heard of mankind's most single greatest invention for human cleanliness? Y'know, the classic bar of soap? Cos' I'm startin' to question your level of expertise there."

"You're a little shit, ain't ya, Nichols?" Boo sniggers.

"It's one of my many talents." Nicky chuckles, periodically glancing down at a giddy, lust-struck Lorna, before resuming eye contact with Alex. "Yo Vause, I ain't forgotten. We're goin' out, yeah?"

"Well it seems I don't have a fucking choice." Alex grumbles.

"Oooh, where ya goin', hon?" Lorna quizzes.

"As per the norm, Vause here wants some pussy to slam," On that note, Alex huffs in annoyance as Boo laughs, and Nicky's smirk can only grow in response, "so we're goin' round the clubs."

"I'm comin' too, right?"

"Of course you're cummin', babe. Kinda inevitable with me as your girlfriend, don't ya think?"

Lorna lightly punches Nicky's arm. "Not like that, ya shit for brains."

"So," Tricia says, reannouncing her presence, "we're all goin' to LA on Monday, right?"

"Yeah." Gina nods. "I'm takin' this weekend as an opportunity to cool off, recharge my batteries. Unlike certain people who are fuckin' publicity obsessed."

"Hey, fuck you!" Nicky spits harshly. "Those assholes made my life hell!"

"Wasn't talkin' to you, Nichols, but whatever." Gina rolls her eyes, turning her back on the others. "What're you gettin' up to these next few days, Trish?"

"Gonna practice some more." Tricia nods, determined.

In the near background, Nicky demands, "so you were talkin' to Lorn, eh?! What the fuck, man?! She ain't fuckin' publicity obsessed," but it's to no avail. Both Tricia and Gina blank her ranting, and Alex subtly finds this hilarious.

"What, tonight?" Gina questions. "Aren't you tired?"

"Yeah, but...I gotta be a good guitarist, yo." Tricia shrugs. "Like Alex. She's crazy talented."

Alex's ears prick up at the brief mention of her name, but she's not surprised to overhear who mentions it. Tricia's always been starstruck by her. Only performing with The Pussy Destroyers for two short years, it's probable that she hasn't wholly adapted to the insane fame at her fingertips, and that doesn't exclude being constantly around decade-long rock stars. Alex does understand, because (and more often than not, she forgets this) Tricia is only nineteen years old; she's incredibly vulnerable and, in reality, hasn't yet experienced the grit and the graft that's served with the sad status of 'celebrity.' Idealistic and bursting with a talent Alex commends (silently envies, too), Tricia Miller is the embodiment of herself; the Alex Vause which first strolled onto the scene all those aeons ago, the Alex Vause that actually lived for making music. She wants to be the role model Tricia seeks, and ideally, she'd be perfect, but fulfilling that is a mountain of a climb, because life's happened and it's bullshit, oh, is it bullshit, and there's nothing Alex can do to reclaim her lost ignorance. Her love for music will never be swayed, but now she's found a greater relationship with drugs. She hopes, prays, begs to whatever entity above that Tricia doesn't stalk her every footstep.

"Hey, Trish?" She calls out, trying her utmost best to enforce some fucking kind of futile positivity.

Tricia cocks her head up, eyebrows inquistively furrowed. "Yeah, Vause?"

"Don't doubt yourself, kid. You rock."

Tricia beams with enthrallment, and an innocent enthusiasm shines through. "Thanks, man. Means a lot."

"I mean, I'm still better, but you're not far short." Alex winks, and Tricia chuckles.

"Fuck off, you asshole."

She knows it's a joke, that she shouldn't take it literally, but a part of her does. It shears through her sensitivity, another blow to her decrepit brain. She is an asshole, born and bred. Another hot plume of loathing fumes is emitted, and her ill lungs gasp them in.

Fuck.

She needs this to stop. Now.

***

Alex, Nicky and Lorna are the last to leave, and Boo prewarns them via text message (their group chat appropriately named 'so you like pussy, huh?') that there's a swarm of paparazzi buzzing around outside, shuttering away on their cameras. Like moths to blinkering light, they drift towards what is encapsulating, what stands out broad from the rest; what they, as parasites, can feed off and thrive, devouring their hosts with a minuscule click.

Great. Just what Alex needs.

As protocol, Alex trades her frames for sunglasses. Though impairing her vision, at least her eyes are protected in the long term (also hiding the blatantly obvious fact that her pupils are as wide as fucking saucepans). She's been in this business for what surely feel like a lifetime, so naturally she's acquired copious tricks of the trade. Indeed the oldest in the book, but sunglasses are surprisingly beneficiary for a whole plethora of scenarios.

Nicky and Lorna do the same, and really stretch alleged her 'coolness', Nicky squeezes her hood over her mop of locks. Lorna marks her descent first, striding towards the backstage door. She opens it, and a fanfare arises in her path; from the flick, flick, flick of the flashes to the instant bombardment of questions, nothing fails to propose itself as a hideous obstacle.

Alex shakily inhales, exhales, inhales again, scrambling to contain her impending anxiety as the comments, the imperatives, the invasion filters through her ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Alex? You okay?" Nicky asks, deathly serious, all flippance long dispersed.

"It's just...I don't know how Lorna does it, y'know? With the paps. You know I get this awful fucking knot in my chest, and this unbearable slamming in my head, and I can't...I can't get rid of it unless I'm high."

"You and me both. Look, all we gotta do is march the fuck out there, hurl the magic of satire in their plastic-ass faces and sniff the sweet aroma of H, baby. Then ya won't fuckin' know what pain is!"

She's no good for Nicky and Nicky's no good for her, but she's not one to deny that in the shittiest of times, her best friend is the one constant; the woman that binds herself to Alex's hip, sticking with her through thick and thin; the woman that, despite all her faults and more, is loyal, persistent and never fails to utilise her stroke of genius wit.

She always extracts a smile from Alex, and this time it's no different. "Yeah, you're right. I'm being ridiculous."

"Hey, it's cool, man." Nicky starts to walk ahead. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Metaphorically of course, cos' you've always been pretty damn hot, but penis is strictly not on my agenda."

Alex follows, sighing. "God, if I didn't have such a fucked anatomy we'd probably be married by now. What a dysfunctional relationship that would be."

"Two dommes is my idea of clitoris heaven." As Nicky approaches the stream of disorder outside, she shoots a final glance at Alex. "Ya ready to rock n' roll, Vause?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely." Alex grumbles. "Cos' I've wanted nothing more then to have my brain busted by flash photography for the seventh time this week."

Alex and Nicky take the first step into the unknown, and a pack of gargling, snarling creatures stand predatory in their wake, gaping beedily through circular-rimmed glasses and clutching steaming coffee cups. The animals roar ahead, thrashing beastly remarks and desperately dabbling with their cameras. A hot flash of bright, blurred blinkering lights stretch out, and it consumes what remains of Alex's shadowed vision. All her senses, on leaps and bounds, are digested alive by the pack before her, rendering them numb and void.

As the so-called 'biggest' egos of The Pussy Destroyers (though Alex wouldn't contest that proclamation), it's typical of them to antagonize the paparazzi. In her bleak, disarrayed, drug-addled mind, Alex couldn't give a single damm about the implications of such; implications that have been stacked and built upon as the years have passed in a harsh blur, and as her fame has peaked to a gargantuan level; implications with little support mounting her to the ground, and as the skyscraper of her reputation has emerged, her namesake, wealth, all that she's ever fought for, dreamt for since the age of ten, is threatening to collapse beneath the crumbling foundations.

"Nicky, when do you plan on getting your hair cut?!" One demands, not staying short of patronizing.

Well wouldn't that make a real cracker of a headline?" Nicky challenges, laughing sardonically. "'Nicky Nichols finally gets her head shaved to reinforce that she's, according to you wonderful people, a white supremacist!'"

"Not to mention you claimed The Pussy Destroyers are the 'lesbian illuminati that are so clearly the instigators of a straight-to-gay conversion cult.'" Alex clicks her teeth in a mockery of dismay, and she feels a hot plume of satisfaction rupturing through her core. "Now as far as I'm concerned, you can't be a homophobic supremacist and the leaders of a gay cult all at once, because that takes some serious multitasking with your morals."

If the paparazzi document this exchange (which they will, obviously) Alex can already foresee Red having an aneurysm.

"You two are hilarious!" He laughs, blissfully and pathetically unaware.

"Lorna, are the rumours true?!" Another buts in. "Are you leaving The Pussy Destroyers?!"

Lorna spins around, smiling for the cameras. "I ain't heard of no rumours, honey. Sorry."

"Are you dating Nicky?! You two were looking pretty cosy last month in West Hollywood!"

"Uh, that is our business. Thank-"

"You ain't gonna tell em' about your, what, sixteenth time granting me access to your forbidden fruit?" Nicky asserts, somewhat aggressive in her manner. "And I thought you were happy we were fucking again, Lorn!"

Lorna leans in close to Nicky, hot breath tickling against her ear. "Stop it, hon. You want em' to write a shitty article about you again? That what you want? I don't get why you're gettin' all mouthy tonight anyway. The concert went well, didn't it?"

Nicky presses a soft kiss against Lorna's cheek, and as the paparazzi fanatically fire their snapshots of the pair, she murmurs, "I-I-I'm fine, doll. Don't worry about it, yeah?"

Alex can't quite hear what's happening, but Nicky's painfully pent-up tension and Lorna's clear concern displays all the evidence she needs. Nicky's crying out for her heroin. She's in goddamn agony. If provoked, Alex's behaviour isn't so dissimilar; erratic, unsettling and ill-tempered, with a slice of regurgitation and uncontrollable shuddering. Lorna can't understand, won't understand, because she's so immersed in this picturesque utopia of a dream verse. She isn't a realist, never has been, ever since they were in high school. Sure, they've made it, just like she always said they would, but not like this. She can't acknowledge, won't acknowledge, that her best friend and best friend-turned-lover have a killer of a compulsion.

As the three of them approach the limo, a young woman thrusts a pad and pen into Alex's face. Sunglasses guising her eyes, Alex gets away with rolling them out of pure frustration, exhaustion and just a complete mind fuck, because the flickering flashes and the screeching scavengers are enough to eat away at what consciousness remains intact.

"Can I get your autographs?!" She persists, begging, desperate, her fate dependent on it.

Lorna smiles apologetically. "Sorry, honey, we gotta go."

The security guard flings the limo door open. Alex gratefully clambers inside, marking her escape from the blinding flashes. The dimmed disco lighting soothes her stinging eyes and creates a certain sanity; an oasis in the midst of destruction. She sits and relaxes into the comfort of plush leather, appreciating its gentle cushioning for her weary, aching, clammy body.

Nicky scrambles to the opposite side, her mass of hair obscuring her vision, and Lorna is in her shadow. Nicky collapses down into a slump, legs wide apart; the sheer arrogance of the posture never fails to make Alex chuckle. Lorna curls into Nicky's side, and Nicky drapes an arm across her lithe shoulders, forcing her in close. That familiar anxiousness crawls Their relationship is like a faulty lightbulb, consistently flickering on, and then off, and back on, and off again. Alex wonders how long it'll be before the wiring is either repaired or left to rust, because neither of them can sustain this toxicity. Not for sixteen rounds anyhow.

"I dunno what you two were playin' at out there." Lorna sighs. "Red just sorted out the last stunt you pulled, Vause."

"W-We need a fuckin' hit, Lorn. Give us a break, yeah?" Nicky desperately delves into her leather jacket with her free hand, shakily clutching at the collection of oddments and objects inside, before pulling out a tiny baggie of white powder (though in the limo, the disco lights cause it to absorb a colour changing, making it all the more exquisite to the eye). "Got any paper, Vause?"

"I think I've got some left over from earlier. Wait." Alex slides her hand into her jeans pocket and shifts it out seconds later, revealing a couple of crumpled pieces of paper. "I'll re-roll them." As Alex efficiently rolls them into two tubes, she can feel Nicky's impatient, longing gaze settling on her. Or on the tubes. Likely the tubes.

"Hey, guys." Their driver, John, greets from the front, peeping into his central mirror. "You're going to that club right? In Brooklyn?"

"Yeah, it ain't too far from here."

"You mind if we snort a coupla lines back here, Johnny B?" Nicky asks, frightfully calm and collected in her approach.

"Right, uh...okay, but just pease don't get anything on the seats...or on the floor."

"Yes, sir, Johnny, sir." Nicky mock salutes.

"Oh, you're so funny, Nicky." Lorna giggles, latching on to Nicky's arm. "His name ain't Johnny, it's John."

"Sorry to ask, because I know you wanna...get high and stuff," John says, "and just for the record I know absolutely nothing about drugs...but if you're taking it in a vehicle, why not use a needle? Less messy."

"Also a better high." Alex states. "It's instantly injected into your bloodstream, but you've gotta sterilize it thoroughly. And that can take time. Otherwise you could bring in all sorts of fascinating infections and diseases."

"Wow, uh...I didn't expect you guys would be this...knowledgable."

"Nichols and I have a Master's in junkie philosophy and ethics." Alex hands a paper tube to Nicky. "You'd pass with flying colours in our class."

"You'd be seein' all sorts of flying colours too." Nicky adds, eagerly taking it.

"Uh, yeah...I guess so." John awkwardly bumbles.

As Nicky pours out the contents of the baggie, it mounts into a small dune; flowing like a sand timer, only it's impossible to spin around and revert the grains; impossible to restore the chances anew. Alex greedily scans it, and all sense of her sanity is blockaded. It's there, in front of her, pleading to be used, to fufill its purpose in the world. It doesn't want to feel worthless, so who is Alex to permit that? She homes in like a hawk on the hunt for its prey, and Nicky does the same, so that they're hovering over the tiny peak of power. Alex's heart thumps in excitement, the adrenaline flooding through her system just by the sight. Leaning closer, she places one end of the tube against her nostrils and rests the other on the surface. With one enormous, engulfing inhale, the power flies into the tube and straight into Alex's nose. Fucking thank fuck, finally. She sits back, anticipating her incoming high, and watches Nicky take her turn.

"This is good shit, Nichols." Alex says, nodding. "Where'd you get it from?"

"Up your mother's ass." Nicky wipes her nose clean. "A surprising amount of room in there."

"Holy shit, a crack used to distribute crack. I am truly amazed at your ingenuity."

Nicky sniffles. "Gotta keep those feds in mind, eh? A creative hiding place never fails to make em' look like a gaggle of fucktards. And by creative, I mean your mother's cock stretched asshole."

"Quit bein' gross, Nicky." Lorna frowns.

"You weren't sayin' that when I came on those big pillowy tits last week, babe. God, I could rub my pussy on em' forever."

"Nickyyyyyyy."

"What, Lornaaaaa?"

"Shut up and pass the fuckin' weed."

"It's heroin, you big doofus." Nicky turns to Alex. "Vause, share with my girl. Amateurs, eh?"

"Since when did you go hardcore, Lorna?" Alex is teasing, but her subconscious is screaming out, scolding her relentlessly, because surely this isn't right. Lorna's only ever smoked weed, and even then that's a rarity of the queerest kind.

"Dunno, just wanna see what all the fuss is about, is all." Lorna shrugs, all pretty and innocent and so unbearably oblivious to anything and everything in this cruel reality.

Alex faces Nicky, her brow knitted in an inkling of concern. "And...you're okay with this?"

"Lorn's an adult." Nicky mumbles, sliding her hand into her jeans pocket. She pulls out a single cigarette and a lighter. "Does what she wants." Briskly, she lights it and rolls down the blackened window a notch, allowing the string of smoke to lazily trail outside.

"Oh, well that's very non-controlling-girlfriend-like of ya." Lorna figures, taking possession of the baggie.

Nicky smirks, religiously puffing on the cigarette. "Red would be flippin' her shit if she saw us. We're a fuckin' mess, ey Vause?"

"Yeah..." Alex mumbles, gazing out into nothing.

She's not honest about what happened with Red. Not only does she feel it unnecessary to mention, because sympathy is the last thing she'd receive, but she'd rather allow her high to sweep through without any discussion. Sighing, her eyes drift to a close, and a sudden calmness cools her raging distress, coursing through every inch of her system. It's instant, endorsing resistance against her absolute curse of a mind, but before all is blockaded, before that high has utterly obliterated her constant woe, she comes to an unnerving conclusion.

Fuck, we weren't like this. We weren't always this...awful. We were just kids. Kids that wanted to play some kick-ass tunes. Jesus Christ, what happened to us?

She knows it's a joke, that she shouldn't take it literally, that she's not really, truly a fucking mess, just as Nicky claims, but jesus fuck, she isn't Lorna,

and she can't delude herself for a moment longer.


	4. Quality Gaytertainment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piper is in for a life-changing shock encounter at her workplace. Alex and Nicky revel in the scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I just wanted to take the time to thank everybody for the interest in my story. I know it's a slow burn, but I guarantee it'll be worth the wait. I appreciate all the follows, favourites and reviews; I guess it means I'm doing something right! But honestly, it means so much, so thank you.
> 
> If there's anything you might want me to do differently (or even keep the same), please, don't be afraid to drop me some constructive criticism. I always want to improve as a writer!

Thankfully, Piper's only five minutes late to work. Regular running plays steadily to her advantage.

She flings the back door open and rushes into the building, not caring to account the mighty slamming behind her. Feet pounding against the tiles, breath ragged, a slight darkness drawing in, she makes her way towards the luminous bar. Several have already poured in, dressed partially to impress (Piper would never dream of waltzing around in such a sickeningly short shirt), and are marking their ascent into escapism. She watches for a moment, mind cast back to countless unfulfilled opportunities at college, the countless times she'd insist on being her tedious self. And once countless memories start to plague her, she plucks herself out of the trap door of distraction and spins around, hopping over to the bar.

"I'm here! I'm here!" She announces, a certain self-assurance striding through; as though she's the forefront of their operation, and it can't possibly function accordingly in her absence.

Flaca and Brook, her fellow team (friends is an understatement in Flaca's eyes, but Brook thinks they're bounded like glue) look up, evidently curious of Piper's whereabouts. Brook's big, blinking eyes widen like a caricature whilst Flaca's narrow, thick eyeliner only emphasizing their slanting.

"Where you been, man?" Flaca whines. "Hello Kitty ain't shut the fuck up about North Korea." She stares Brook down, and Brook exerts a rage-infused glare. "Like bitch, I know you got the same ancestors, but you live in America, so why do you give a shit?"

Brook gasps. "We are in a democracy, Flaca! It is within my right, as an American-born citizien, to exercise my opinions regarding the curse of totalitarianism-"

"Yeah, don't care. Anyway, where the fuck were you, Chapman?"

Piper breaks into a wide grin; perhaps normality hasn't quite snatched the reins of her reality quite yet. "Can you guys keep a secret?"

Brook ponders the query. "Well it depends on the circumstances of said secret-"

"Pfft." Flaca intervenes. "We ain't no snitches. Just tell us."

"I...was at...a concert."

"And you ain't tired?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely exhausted, but the experience was fucking incredible. It was like...I'd been transported to another universe. Obviously not sucked through a black hole, because that would end catastrophically."

"So whose concert it? I might listen to their music."

"The, uh...The Pussy Destroyers."

"What, the lesbian culture club?" Flaca emits a chuckle out of disbelief. "No fuckin' way. You ain't a DildoBomb. You're too boring."

Piper blinks at Flaca's insult, only too accustomed to it, and finds her mouth scooching towards a very different concern. "Sorry, what is a DildoBomb?"

"Uh...it's what they call us fans. But whatever, I can't believe you was there like two hours ago. How dope was it?"

"It was...invigorating."

"Yeah, I feel you." Flaca nods eagerly.

"Did Nichorello kiss?!" Daya wonders, swiftly homing in on the conversation.

"They're back together again?" Piper questions. Next to Alex, The Pussy Destroyers are adored for the on-off romance between Lorna Morello and Nicky Nichols. Piper has to admit, she's read her fair share of the senseless articles documenting every drama, and there's a certain degree of empty entertainment enclosed within them.

Daya giggles with glee. "See, there's these pap pictures of them, and they was all cuddly and cute in this LA restaurant!"

"Sorry to put a downer on your fangirling, but those two are toxic as fuck." Flaca points out. "They're always breakin' up. That ain't right. But you obviously ship em', so that's good for you, cos' I think they're awful together."

"But they're soulmates, Flaca!"

"Tsk. Whatever, Sleeping Beauty." Flaca scoffs, rolling her eyes. She turns to Piper, and the itching anticipation recommences. "I'm actually like, so jealous right now. I love their music. It's all rock and shit, you know? And their songs mean something."

"Well, 'Shitstorm Coming' is a bit...mental, but otherwise they portray incredibly poignant messages."

"Uh huh. But some of em' got so many issues. It's actually fuckin' depressing. Fame really fucks you up."

"It's horrific. I can't imagine what goes through Alex's head."

"She's acted fuckin' crazy these last few years. I mean, I don't know her for shit, but she looks like she needs a hug. I feel for her."

"She hates being famous. It's obvious."

"She's an artist." Daya adds. "Creative people get depressed. It's just a thing, you know?"

"'Keep on painting your demons.'" Piper recites, almost as if she's rigorously rehearsed each syllable. "'The devil can be beautiful too.' That was her concluding statement at the Grammys. I've never felt so...empowered by another human's words."

It's a quote she's recalled since the dawn of time, one that so perfectly, so appropriately reflects the immense imperfection of an inappropriately imperfect world. A quote that, first uttered just a short year ago, is presumed to reflect Alex's melancholy regarding those three Grammys she'd lost (because, let's face it, nobody would allow such a radical band to succeed in a heteronormative society). But Piper, with all her pent-up English Literature knowledge, interprets it quite differently. She thinks Alex alludes to herself; that there's a kind of hellish catastrophe inside, something she can't wholly keep under her command, but one that she's able to exercise through blatantly blasting lyrics; that she's been given a blessing to cast a rainbow over the cold downpour within, shining strong light and drawing in those moths. Words can be open to one's perception, and Piper has torn Alex's apart, piece by piece. Regard it as obsession or what you will, but ever since that speech of seeming defeat, Piper has been further fascinated by the stimulating enigma of Alex Vause, holdong the torch for a stray of moths behind her.

"If you ask me, she needs to acknowledge that being famous provided her with an enviable lifestyle." Brook says, scrubbing a wine glass. "And if that's your perception of empowerment, you're oblivious to the sheer greatness of Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr."

Well, she's not. But Alex is hot, so.

"It ain't all bout' money, Brook." Flaca frowns.

"What ain't all bout' money, huh?" Aleida struts in, her body con dress minimally serving a purpose. She unleashes a mighty whirlwind of aggression and animosity, and it batters against Piper face-on. "Cos' that obviously ain't why you four fuckin' retards stand all goddamn morning in this shithole."

"We were just saying that being famous and havin' money ain't all what life's about." Flaca rapidly comes to the rescue. "There's this rock singer-"

"Yeah, fuckin' Alex Vause, I don't give a crap." Aleida abruptly pushes back Flaca's defence. "Why you wastin' my money makin' time, cos' that's what my life is about, by talkin' about some fuckin' famous rich lessie?"

"You'd be skinned alive at one of their concerts, Aleida." Piper states, arms folded, triumphant and satisfyingly smug with her response.

"And how the fuck you know that, Chapman?" Aleida demands, and Piper takes a step back. A tsunami of bitter realisation floods through; a realisation that she'd, as per the norm, had given her tongue all the permission to run wild. "Oh, I see. So that's why you were late. Wow, you think you're so cool cos' you went to a fuckin' lessie convention."

"Well-"

"Any more bullshit you gotta pull before you start? No? Alright, so get to fuckin' work. Cocktails ain't gonna be mixin' themselves. You, Soso stupid?" Aleida turns to Brook. "Stop your moping and start servin' some fuckin' tables. And Daya," mother and daughter stare each other down, and Piper recalls her own frail maternal relationship, "get your fuckin' face out your fat ass crack and start livin' in the real world."

Daya sighs. "Why you gotta be such a bitch, mom? I'm friends with these girls. They're cool."

"Cos' I've got a fuckin' nightclub to run. It ain't Daya's Anime Club for the Retarded." And with that, Aleida spins on her high heels and saunters out of the bar, not forgetting to toss in a final remark. "I'm a businesswoman, bitches!'

Daya throws her head into her hands, unable to meet anyone else's infuriated gaze. "Fuck."

"Wow, I bet Cesar's having another affair." Brook jabbers, an inevitable tangent on the horizon. "I swear, these Latinas are so loud, you could like, legit, write a whole biography on their crazy personal convos. Oh my god, imagine if someone did that? That would be so cool. I mean, they'd probably get sued, but-"

"This is the one moment in your life where you shut the fuck up." Flaca scorns. "Jesus, puta. Daya's upset here."

"Okay, I don't know Spanish, but I can tell that was very derogatory and borderline racist-"

"Puta means 'prostitute', Brook." Piper says, feeling every urge to intervene. "I speak Spanish."

"So you're a Hispanic spy?!"

"Oh my god, fuckin' white people learn Spanish in schools." Flaca scoffs, shaking her head. "Don't you know anythin'?"

"I know that the time to act is now!" Brook declares with all the enthusiasm one wouldn't manifest at one o'clock in the morning. "We are living in a world of moral turpitude! Non-Hispanic people learning Spanish?! That shows how 2009 is surely preemptive to the disastrous political climate set to take us by storm in-"

"Brook, please." Piper is left with little choice but to plead, already resenting the disgustingly desperate tone she takes. "We're waitresses. Working. In a nightclub. Activism is a whole other world."

"You don't know what I do off-hours."

"No offence, but I don't think I want to either."

What with Brook's relentless proclamations, Flaca's irritability and Aleida's outlandish behaviour (Daya isn't that bad), Piper's only reminded that this is her normality. She's reminded that it's the life destined before her, one where she's scrambling to fund her post-college woes, and that the fantastical world of The Pussy Destroyers just isn't hers to settle on. Already colonised by that army of misfits, Piper lingers on the side of their settlements, looking in but never, not ever living free.

***

Alex is too high to realize how many times she's smoked from that glass pipe. It's passed around and around and it's back within her reach in a matter of seconds, minutes, even hours; does time truly exist anymore? Or does time truly exist at all?

Her brain speeds up at the same time that it slows down, and the resulting sensations clash like a tyranny of tectonic plates, sending sudden earthquakes to the surface above. But they're slugging, shifting tremors, halting with gravity. Chaotic yet cathartic, painful yet numb, swift yet slack, the conflicting cacophony teems over the tip of rationality, and Alex is rendered unable to comprehend, only seeing, hearing, thinking in the optimum abstraction. A brief flurry of exhaustion wavers through, and the dark abyss spreads into Alex's tunnel of sight, but it's not long (or is it?) before bursts of blue and rays of red explode into the scene, moving backwards, forwards, colours dilating out, and then the walls of the limousine twist into a cyclone, whirling, swirling, a hurling mass of nonsense.

Any conscience is vacuumed from her mind, ceasing to exist, and her thoughts are still and desolate. Everything becomes nothing, and it's swallowed into the swamp of aimlessness. Purposeful to pointless. She leans back and stares up starry-eyed, vacant, inanimate, inhumane.

What's she so depressed about, anyhow? Is it even real? Is she real?

"Ba ba ba ba, Inspector Gidget, ba ba ba ba ba baaaaa..." Lorna babbles, flailing and flinging her arms.

"So a penguin and a farmer walk int'a bar..." Nicky murmurs, eyes hooded and frizzled hair framing her face. "An' I don't fuckin' know, he's an eggplant, not retarded...retarded and an eggplant...eggplant and retarded...da da da dummm...dum..." She drifts into a slight slumber, her head lowered.

"Nicky, wake up!" Alex spouts, a new breadth of energy pushing her forth. "We gotta' find the space dust for the rocket ship! Or maybe it could run on eggplant..."

In a flash, Nicky jolts awake, looks up and jumps in her seat. "I-I-I see space dust behind ya ear!" She points, staring wide and profuse at the drinks cooler. "Maybe Inspector Gadget is behind this mystical mysterious mystery of mysteries! Quick, we need to find the monkey! It's our only hope if we wanna get to the sun!"

"Journey to the centre of the sun!" Alex giggles. "Ba ba ba ba bummm! Oooh, I can taste penguins in my mouth! How delightful!"

John exhales from the front, briefly observing the scene through the interior mirror before resetting his focus on the road. "Please don't tell me you're all smoking crack. I thought heroin was enough."

"Studies have de-mon-stray-teed," Nicky slurs, "that a marriage between crack and heroin is surprisingly good for the menopause! You reached that time in your life, Johnny B?"

"What...? Okay, just forget I said anything. I'll talk to you guys when you're not stoned."

"Are we there yet?!" Lorna screeches. "I got a back itch!"

"I'm hoping we get there soon," John grumbles, keeping his voice low, "cos' I am actually gonna go insane if I have to put up with this shit for much longer."

"On the duration of our trek to the sun," Alex pronounces, "we need to be entertained. Any ideas, Nicoleyolypoly?"

"Titty titty titties!" Nicky howls. "Morello, start strippin'!"

Lorna sluggishly salutes. "Yes, sir, Nichols, sir!"

"That is quality gaytertainment right there, my fair lady!"

"Christ..." John exhales again, louder, patience drawing to a halt,

but nobody cares to notice.

Alex is too high to notice anything.

***

"You ain't gonna fuckin' believe this, Chapman!" Flaca scurries to Piper's side, all foul moods no more. "Guess who just walked in!"

"Let me guess." Piper snorts, handing a glass of wine over the bar. "Alex Vause? Stop with the bullshit, Flaca."

"I swear I ain't bullshittin' you! Get off your ass and see for yourself!"

Piper is absolutely, positively certain that Flaca is lying, because there's no way, not in a million years, that Alex Vause is in such close proximity to her, and especially not when she'd attended Alex's very concert. The sheer irony is too obscure to believe, too surreal to be any more than a farcical fantasy. Piper chuckles, shakes her head, unsure when her incessant optimism had depleted so dramatically, and yet there's an inkling of belief that can't completely subside. She gives in and looks up, following Flaca's pointed, slightly shuddering finger, and then it comes all at once, crashing into her senses, sending her straight into a state oblivion, feeling as though she might regurgitate or collapse to the ground or even die standing on the spot,

because Flaca wasn't lying.

It's her.

Living, breathing, surviving; strolling into the scene as if she's already owning it all.

And, as if the gods above are speaking to her, 'Everybody Loves Me' culminates loud and proud through the speakers.

"Oh my!

Feels just like I don't try

Looks so good I might die

All I know is everybody loves me,"

Piper feels a pumping in her chest peaking at a thunderous pace; on the verge of rattling her ribcage, her heart ricochets off the walls, just barely contained inside. An irregular rhythm, the thump, thump, thump of her melody is completely off beat. The pit of her stomach, taken aback by her racing heart, is shocked into an acrobatics show; somersaulting, cartwheeling, spinning, turning her insides out, in, and back out again, gargling in a tempestuous fit. Her eyes, ironed in place, can't flee from the sight, and she doesn't know whether she's petrified or surprised or stunned or fucking turned on, but a queer numbness arises from the deepest depths of the ocean, and she finds herself paralyzed in place,

because Alex Vause is here.

"Get down,

Swaying to my own sound

Flashes in my face now

All I know is everybody loves me

Everybody loves me..."

Piper's seriously considering whether she died and was resurrected during her rush; that's probable, because there's no way, no fucking way, not in a million and one years, that Alex Vause is in such close proximity to her, and in her fucking stupidly stupid workplace no less (then again, she's read Alex often vists the clubs whenever she's in New York, so it shouldn't particularly be a shock). Nicky Nichols and Lorna Morello aren't far from sight, gleaming red lipstick and obscenly insane hair icons in their own right, but Piper's only gaping into those narrow frames.

"Holy fucking shit!" She cries, finally gathering her first words.

"What?" Brook wonders, and it takes all of Piper's restricted restraint not to snap in the girl's face.

"Alex Vause just walked in!"

"Who-oh, her."

"Holy fucking shit..." Piper repeats, dazed and distant, stalking Alex's each and every move.

"You legitimately just said that-"

"Brook, I need you to shut the fuck up for once in your life and muster up all the strength you've got to pinch me so. Fucking. Hard."

"Absolutely not-"

"Do it, Brook!" And Piper cracks, eyes wild, shaking by the slight.

"Piper, I'm not-"

"You are going to fucking pinch me, Brook Soso!"

"Piper-"

"Pinch me!"

"But it's-"

"Pinch me as if the fate of your existence depended on it!"

Flaca shrugs. "She ain't gonna shut up til' you do, Pikachu."

Brook doesn't ask again. But depsite the wicked sharp, excruciating pain that proposes a colossal wreck on Piper's nerves, and the slight hiss that escapes through parted lips, it proves pointless anyhow, because Alex Vause is here, and being pinched won't change that.

***

Intoxicated, sticky bodies clamp together on the dancefloor, forming a bulging clump of humidity. Alex finds herself lugging through the swaying crowd, already riddled with fatigue, and Nicky trudges along in her shadow. She's seen and heard just enough of humanity for one evening, having been confronted with streamlines of overzealous tribes mere hours before. Clubbing is amongst the perils of her agenda, only thriving to exacerbate her exhaustion. What she yearns is to have a drink or two, ease into her soothing, loosening high and launch the arrowhead towards her latest target. Strolling into a heap of sheep hadn't been necessary; she could've done all of this and more in the cosy confines of her apartment, all in the absence of anyone's presence.

Alex takes her place at the bar and rakes a hand through her hair, mind-numbingly worn. All elation has escaped, blustering away in sharp winds, and she's left shelled and jaded. Better then being engulfed by her woeful wreckage, but nonetheless still swallowing what energy lingers within. She exhales, eyelids threatening to collapse in their wake, dazzled and dazed and utterly fucked.

Nicky plods down beside a dozing Alex and grins, sneaking in a taunting twang. "Wakey wakey, Vausey-Vausey."

Alex forces her eyes open, irritability already stirring in the pot; she can't stand that ridiculous childhood nickname, and yet everyone else seems adamant not to discard it. "Suck it, Nichols. I'm high, not tired."

"What, the great Alex Vause can't admit she ain't immortal?"

"Fuck off." Alex grumbles, massaging her temple. "Seriously though, how smashed are we?"

"The vase ain't completely shattered. In the past I've been totally brain-fucked til' morning."

"We were totally brain-fucked in the limo."

"Tis' the chemical reaction between heroin and crack. Fun combo, ain't it?"

"Holy shit, it's incredible."

"Speaking of which," Nicky opens her palm, unveiling the half-empty baggie, "you gotta top up your juice?"

"I've snorted enough heroin for my high to last til' Christmas."

Nicky pockets the baggie. "Your loss."

As Alex and Nicky sip their beers, Alex keeps an attentive eye for a potential rendezvous. She knows it'll be simple; flash her a knowing smirk and a wink, offer a compliment, lightly brush her arm, trailing up to her cheek, stroking it, fiddling with her lips, and then sealing it all with a kiss. If there's one benefit to fame, it's the pool of gorgeous women she can hand select at will, return one, and then borrow another. And they'll fling themselves at her, bat their eyelashes, thrust out their cleavage, weak at the knees, because they're not going to deny Alex Vause, international rock star and a very keen lover of ladies. Heterosexual or not, she exerts the power, the gravitational grip, to lure them in, to charm them, seduce them, pulling them into her arms.

Flitting from the bar to the dancefloor, and returning to bar, Alex is on constant alert (as far as the heroin can permit). Not intrigued by the women sat at the bar, she seeks beyond it, and soon enough she's settled on her choice. A barmaid, loosely engaged with her chattering colleague, slowly wipes the table. And fucking Christ, is she hot. The long, blonde locks does it for Alex; fair-haired women are always her first port of call, and this beauty nestles neatly into Alex's ideals. Her brow, painfully concentrated, is either indicative of her determination to fulfil the task at hand, or a blistering dismay towards her colleague; it's nothing short of adorable, and it makes her so undeniably, so inevitably fuckable. Alex thinks of her writhing underneath, that same expression, only she's panting, gasping, groaning (she's totally vocal), never skipping an opportunity to utter Alex's name. What a perfect choice indeed.

"How many points is that one worth?" Alex nods in the woman's direction.

"Who?" Nicky's eyes flicker in an inumberable motion as she tilts her head. "Mulan or Blondie?"

"Hmm...both." Alex smirks.

Though a 'bang off' hasn't commenced for good time, Alex and Nicky continue to revel in their 'ranking system' (and Alex is silently glad, because man, that shit is exhausting). It boils down to a lengthy logic even Alex can't apprehend, but it makes discussing their favourite subject (following drugs, of course) all the more thrilling. And Alex is most certainly compelled by that hot blonde who keeps on with her snide, shifty glances and is seemingly utilising the bar as a shield from any advances she might possibly instigate. Alex has never encountered her before and already she's fascinated by this peculiarity, this incredibly discreet but distinctive obsession the woman displays. She's hardly a day over twenty-two, and normally Alex would consume a slightly more mature wine, but the tall, toned, beautiful bombshell is definitely fine in her eyes. She's an eight at the bare minimum, and Nicky can't claim otherwise.

After careful contemplation, Nicky nods, satisfied with her discovery. "I'd say Mulan's a seven. Decent face, nice rack. Can't fault that."

"Don't you think you're being too generous?"

"Nah. I like em' foreign, Vause." Nicky grins, wiggling her eyebrows. "The sex is more exotic. Remember the Brazilian belly dancer? God, she was a fuckin' riot."

"What was her name? Damonique?"

"Never got it. I was shitfaced."

"So about seventy-five percent of your waking moments."

"And ninety percent of yours."

"Touché. So what about Blondie?"

"Three tops. Face is plain and you can't play with her titties. Don't see em' anywhere. They've deflated like fuckin' balloons."

"A three?" Alex asks incredulously. "Really, Nichols? Blondie's a hottie. She's got that fake innocence, which is cute, sure, but I bet she's a fucking beast in bed. I swear, man, I'm getting hard just looking at her."

"While I do not care to know about the daily functions of your penis, why'd ya think I'd only score her a three? Ain't it obvious?"

"Because your idea of the 'perfect woman' is short Italian-American New Yorkers with a tendency to dump your sorry ass every three months?"

"Hey, least we got passion. Something you, my dear dyke friend, have never experienced cos' you're all 'uh, sorry girl. Don't do relationships." Nicky deepens her voice in a glaring attempt to impersonate Alex, and Alex curiously cocks an eyebrow at the sight. "'Tell you what, though. If I suck on your pussy and stick five-hundred bucks between your tits for safekeeping, will that suffice?'"

"Blondie's higher then a fucking three. What's your reasoning? Spit it out."

"Just like Sylvie did when she choked on your monster cock-"

"Does your sexed-up brain seriously have a one-track thought? Because I think you should go to a doctor, Nichols. This is potentially harmful to the general population."

"Okay, okay. I think she's a three cos' you're into blondes, so obviously I'm gonna denote anythin' that takes ya fancy."

"Fucking cheat. Seriously, what would you actually score her? No bullshit bias."

"Ehhh...bout' a six."

"What're you talkin' about, honey?" Lorna saunters over, slightly sweaty from the dancefloor, and invites herself to sit on Nicky's knee.

Nicky envelopes her arms around Lorna's waist, keeping her secure. "Nothin', doll."

Alex notes Nicky's glazed, predatory gaze; she scrutinises every part of Lorna's body. As Lorna squirms in Nicky's grasp, mouth parted, that reoccurring twitch of spite starts to flicker in Alex's ounce of sadism trickles through, and she finds herself unable to tame her festering begrudgement, coolly tossing in a snaking remark that'll melt their moment.

"We're just grading women on a scale of fugly to hot damm goddess, courtesy of your loving doting girlfriend over here."

Lorna's dazzled countenance twists to one of revulsion. "Okay, that is disgusting."

Nicky can only snicker in response. "I see you ain't high anymore, kid. Wanna put an end to normality?"

"I'm stickin' ta weed." Lorna asserts, eyes narrowed. "I don't get the whole thing with you an' heroin, anyhow. Just makes you all sleepy."

It's called addiction, you idiot, Alex thinks, but it doesn't emerge any further.

"Now if we're talking foreign chicks, what about Spanish Harlem over there?" Nicky briefly surveys the other barmaids before resettling her focus on Lorna's persisting fury.

"We just got back together and you're already checkin' out other girls?" She seethes through gritted teeth. "Anyone else on your stupid fucklist I gotta know about?"

"Hey, it's all theoretical, baby." Nicky chuckles, unapologetically brash. "I'm like the Upper East Side's Aphrodite. People look to me as an important presence in navigating their sexual desires. So I've gotta uphold that role."

"Aphrodite was a whore, Nicky."

"What, and you're fuckin' Astraea? I get that's how you see yourself, hon, but c'mon, you're about as pure as a shitty seventies porno."

"You know, I often wake up and think to myself that today is a great day to be thirdwheeling your two dumbass best friends."

"Ain't our fault you're picky with your pussy, Vause." Lorna proclaims, and Nicky shrieks with laughter.

"Oh shit, man!" She exclaims. "Ding ding ding! And that's a win for Miss Lorna 'Lipstick' Morello! You beat me to the suckerpunch, babe! Lovin' the attitude!"

Alex fires a deafening scowl at the pair. "I fucking hate both of you."

Maybe she means it.

***

Ever the person to succumb to temptation, Piper shyly steals the occasional glance at Alex, and each time she can feel a flutter arising in her chest, and a burning breath tickles her nether regions. With each peek, every ounce of already Piper's non-existent nerve is carelessly discarded, and she finds herself reduced to a torrent of tension.

Then green eyes latch to blue, and a shudder drenches Piper's warmth.

It's only brief, but it's like everything has turned to stone, standing stealthily still; everything aside from her and Alex. A thick haze circulates her thoughts, freezing them deathly cold, and it ceases any sense of reasoning or reality. She's absolutely horrified, terrified and staggered all at once; never did she anticipate this to bestow her, not ever did the concept of Alex Vause actually unveiling her existence, let alone being physically present, even cross her. But the proof is there, cast over in black and white, because for that eternal second, that blip in the continuum, Alex is paying Piper all the attention she didn't expect to desire and yet fear. Then it stops, Nicky Nichols clasping Alex's conscience, but before any relief can absorb the current of anxiety, two sets of eyes - brown creeping alongside green - settle on Piper's form. Piper darts between them, from Alex to Nicky and back to Alex, and the dread pushes forth.

They're both incredibly cocky, smirking and winking and scanning Piper's body with animalistic, wolfish glares, Nicky with Lorna in her possession, and Alex circling the rim of her beer bottle with a fingertip. Alex nods, winks again, smirk growing, so smug and superior that Piper can't defer the insecurity bubbling up like bile; that's such an Alex Vause smirk, and Piper is on the receiving end of it. A chill shoots up her spine and she shudders, mortified; Alex is smirking at her and soaking in her shape and she doesn't quite know what to do or what to say, or of she should do anything at all, and it's embarrassing, oh, is it embarrassing, because Piper Chapman isn't this ridiculous fragile delicacy, and yet Alex Vause makes her so.

It's only an instant choice, and granted, she hasn't really thought it through (or about anything much for that matter), but Piper finds herself launching behind Brook in an attempt to find shelter. "Cover me, Brook! They keep looking at me!"

Brook rolls her eyes. "Wow, that's so amazing-"

"Okay, fuck you and your atrociously timed sarcasm! I am absolutely shitting myself here!"

"The fuck you doin', stupid?" Aleida demands, swaggering along. "Those dykes got millions stashed up their asses. Now get the fuck over there and sell some goddamn cocktails and shit."

"I-I can't go over there, Aleida!" Piper stammers, troubled just by the concept. "I'm freaking out!"

"You think I give a fuck?! You embarrassin' yourself! See, they laughin' at you! That all you want from life, Chapman?! To be laughed at?!"

"Well, no-"

"Hey, you! Tiny Tits!"

Fuck.

She'd recall that deep, husky, oh-so-enchanting voice any day. If those words were passed in another tone, and she'd call the police, determined to have them arrested for sexual harassment. But it's Alex fucking Vause that's harassing her, and that isn't an arrestible offense; it's an electric experience, one rooted with enthrallment and sensuality. Real but unreal, the conflict beyond comprehension, like a teasing hallucination prepping a sadistic strike on her mind. Her heart races along, pumping and thumping and pumping and thumping, and then,

"W-Who? Me?"

She speaks.

***

"Dude, Blondie's all fuckin' panicky." Nicky chuckles, scanning the scene. "She just flew behind Mulan."

"Great. How am I gonna fuck her if she's a nervous wreck?"

"Call her Tiny Tits."

"Isn't that a bit derogatory?"

"It's every bit derogatory, but eh, who fuckin' cares?" Nicky shifts up, rests her arms behind her head and relaxes back in her chair. "It ain't like you'll go to prison for it. And hey, even if you do, send me a postcard. I'd love to check out the view."

"What, of all the naked women in the showers? That's your average sight in Nicky Nichols' Sexland Extravaganza on Broadway, complete with personified dildos and a musical number featuring your undying lust for Lorna's vagina."

"Seriously though, how is that not a thing?! I've been tryin' to pitch it to Red for years!"

Lorna huffs. "Because you are not writing fuckin' sex songs about our relationship, and you are double not stickin' it all over Broadway. It's embarrassin' and disgustin'."

"That seems to be your favourite word today, doll. Ever heard of synonyms? You could do with usin' a few."

"What, you think I'm retarded?" Lorna narrows her eyes. "Like I don't know what fuckin' cinnamon is. You're such a cunt, Nicky-"

Nicky sniggers, straining to contain her laughter. "Hey, no C-word unless we're referring to homophobes or Stella Carlin. Right, Vause?"

"Uh, yeah." Alex murmurs. "No C-Word, Lorn. It's not ladylike."

"Like you two are ladylike!" Lorna bellows, scoffing, fire fuelling. "You got 'butch dyke one and two' tattooed on ya fuckin' foreheads like you're outta Dr. Seuss!"

"I'm the 'one,' right?" Alex chuckles, eyebrow cocked.

"Hey!" Nicky exclaims. "Why are you the 'one?'"

"Because I'm more popular then you."

"Oh, really? That's fascinating to know." Nicky's tone darkens, but she still upholds that stupidly lopsided grin. Alex subconsciously curses herself, knowing she's lashed a raw nerve. "Cos' in Red's eyes, you're a fuckin' cunt."

It's best not to retort, but Alex's pride refrains from giving in, stunting any submission into redundancy. "I thought you banned the C-Word, Nicole. How times change."

"Ugh! I'm goin' dancin'!" Lorna hobbles off Nicky. "You two clowns are pissin' me off!" She marches off, soft curls bouncing.

"Love you too, princess!" Nicky teases. She waits until Lorna disappears into the crowd to resume the topic of interest. "So, uh, you banging Blondie in the bathroom?"

"Fuck yeah. I'm hoping she'll get a break in her shift. It'll make things a whole lot easier."

"Fuck that. Get her over here, man. Use my pickup line."

"What, Tiny Tits?"

"I bet she creams her fuckin' panties just hearing it." Nicky smirks. "Now c'mon, precious cumming time's a-wastin'."

"Hey, you!" Alex hollers. "Tiny Tits!"

She doesn't anticipate a response, given the woman's hesitance, but that doesn't appear to interfere too much, because soon enough she's receiving one.

"W-Who? Me?"


	5. The Stupid One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronted by a detached Alex, Piper can't keep her nerves intact. Nicky sparks a debate with Brook.

She's mortified, most invariably on the brink of a crippling demise. Alex's words are like a dagger jabbing into her heart and never desiring to cease, even when she's long deceased. Eyes widening, the dread commences, symbols crashing, drums beating, the bell droning; an orchestra of perfectly organized nonsense, and Alex Vause is its cruel conductor. Palpitations arise, screaming in a soprano, and it takes every inch of Piper's slipping sanity to not collapse in the audience. She's rendered incapable of saying much more, terrified of the performance before her, the cacophony arising, higher, higher, until all in her mind is impaired, fear clawing into the excitement, the anticipation that she should feel.

And then Alex delves deeper into the conversation, hoisting up her half-empty (or half-full, who _fucking_ cares) beer bottle. "Yeah, you. Can you get me another drink?"

Every syllable blends into one. The blur enters one ear and straight through the other, inexplicably mute. Piper gapes, hef mouth parted, jaw rusted in position; it's impossible to loosen, the cogs iced in place. It's like a sheen of ice has frozen shut all her senses, trapping her in a frigid blizzard. She blinks once, twice, thrice, shattering the arctic intrusion, and forces herself to refocus on Alex. Desolate and dazed, no information has been obtained nor processed, her memory shattered by swift, sharp winter winds.

"U-Uh..." She mumbles, stupified by the atrocity of her horror. "Sorry, what did you want?"

"A beer?" Alex asks again, but there's a mild mockery draping on the coattails of her tone.

"Oh, yeah..." Piper gulps, and the climatic catastrophe picks up its unearthly pace. "Well, that would make sense..."

Alex chuckles. "Given that you're a fuckin' barmaid, no, it wouldn't make sense, huh?"

"W-What...?"

"I invented sarcasm, Tiny Tits."

"Uh, right...that's an impressive accomplishment."

_Seriously?!_

Piper feels unbelievably idiotic; bumbling along, fumbling with her words, losing all capability to string a simple sentence together. Alex Vause strikes again, decaying Piper's very ability to function accordingly. It's pathetic. Piper _knows_ she's worth so much more than any obscure humiliation thrusted upon her.

"That was sarcasm." Alex says, impossibly blunt and smug all at once.

"...I'll get your beer."

Piper kneels down and opens the refrigerator, and at the very point a cool blast pounds into her skin, her hand is possessed. It shudders and shakes, gaining a treacherous mind of its own. Even when Piper stretches in and retrives the frosting drink, her palm burning by the cold, her hand dismisses any demands and continues to tremble. She squeezes her eyes shut, gladly welcoming the dark spell in her gaze, and scrambles to thaw the frost inside and out. Slowly, sadistically, it starts to melt, and Piper regains some degree of dictation. She exhales, opens her eyes, and the refrigerator mechanically stares back. Closing the door, she arises, the beer bottle blistering her hand, and her eyes re-unite with Alex's piercing glare. This time, however, she sees those constricted, pinprick pupils, and figures something isn't quite right.

Piper hands the beer to Alex, and her screaming skin is instantly relieved. Alex takes it, seemingly unfazed by the chill. "Thanks." She nods. "How long have you worked here?"

"Um, a couple of months..."

"It's not permanent or anything, right? Cos' I'd hope you're not wasting your life serving fuckin' drinks to the drunk and retarded."

Such material would, in an ideal world, permit Piper to retort with a witty quip. 'So you're a part of this delightful group?' And when Alex's smirk would raise simultaneous to her eyebrow, bemused by Piper's cheek, Piper would continue: 'Well, you said I'm serving drinks to the drunk and retarded. And, as far as I'm aware, I just served _you_ a drink. Are you exempt from your own categorization?' Alas, Piper can't gather even a scrape of courage to say it aloud. Not when Alex Vause is sat before her, analysing, interrogating, _talking_, all just to validate her existence.

"N-No, it's...a post-grad job."

"Interesting. What did you study?"

The storm recommences, polluting Piper's mind with spewing terror. Such a simple, restrictive question, and yet something she ignites with excess confusion and chaos; an unnecessary question to establish, because their conversation could've been wrapped up and brushed under the carpet of Piper's most diabolical incidents.

"I, uh..."

"College was _that_ beneficial, huh?" Alex smirks, and Nicky sniggers beside her. "So beneficial to the point where you actually forgot the subjects you studied? Wow. Glad to know I didn't waste my time plunging into that black hole." As Piper frowns, cast away by Alex's unanticipated attitude, Alex starts to laugh. "That was sarcasm again, Tiny Tits. Y'know, if I keep explaining it to you, it kinda defeats the whole purpose."

"I-I majored in English Literature and minored in Art History." Piper splutters out, finally recovering lost words.

"Hey, didn't you minor in that as well, Nichols?" Alex faces Nicky, and Piper exhales, thankful for that hypnotic, addictive stare no longer gaping into her soul.

"Fuck no." Nicky grumbles, sipping her beer. "History's bullshit. I minored in Art. It ain't the same thing."

"Yeah, for the grand total of a year." Alex quips. "What a fantastic achievement. I bet your mom was just beaming with pride when you dropped out."

"Marka was too busy down in the Amazon Rainforest that is Paolo's twiggy dick to notice anythin' from my twelfth birthday onwards."

"Because Tiny Tits really does care about CBS' 'The Nichols Family Shit Show,' coming to you every Saturday night at eight o'clock Eastern Standard Time. Now that's a sitcom I'd actually watch."

"Y'know, Vause," Nicky slams the beer down, and Piper yelps at the rap; fortunately, neither appear to notice, "I am _so_ glad to see that my childhood, wonderfully enriched in verbal abuse, parental neglect and, uh, being forced to sit at a piano from the day I could take a shit by myself, are things that amuse you."

All Alex does is provoke her friend further. "Not to mention the mansion, the private schools, your white privilege-"

"Hey, uh, Tiny Tits?" Nicky demands, widening, frantic, bloodshot eyes darting over to Piper. "You gonna intervene here or what?"

"Um..."

"Nervous, huh?" Nicky questions, that infuriatingly cocky grin tugging at her lips. Though she _is_ attractive - Piper can't dispute that - there's a certain roughness and messiness Nicky Nichols radiates, and Piper isn't swayed by it in the slightest. "Don't blame ya. We're a pretty fuckin' big deal."

"Christ, Nichols." Alex chuckles, shaking her head in a subtle satisfaction. "I can't take you anywhere."

"C'mon man, she _totally_ knows us." Nicky's smirk grows. "What, you like our music? What's your favourite song? I bet it's 'Lesbian Request Denied.' All the 'straight' chicks love that one. Gets em' riled up."

Piper nods with hesitance. "I, uh...actually went to your..." She trails off, concerned over the necessity of her intended revelation. When Alex and Nicky eagerly gape at her, Piper realises that she's already fixed half of the puzzle together, so there's no valid reason to leave it unfinished. "...concert." She eventually mumbles out, head bowed.

"What, the one we just did?" Alex queries. Piper nods again, and Alex beams with a trustworthy enthrallment that makes Piper's stomach tingle. "No shit. Did you enjoy it?"

"Well, it's the first one I've ever been to, so..."

"Who's this, hon?" Lorna strolls along, the epitomization of flawless; perfectly curled, 50s-esque hair, perfected makeup, and a perfectly precise smile. Piper knows no human is that indefectible (not even herself, unfortunately), and immediately she begins to question what lengths Lorna Morello travels to retain that eternally delightful caricature.

"This is Tiny Tits." Nicky lazily gestures to Piper. "Hard to believe it, but she went to our concert. Thinks she's fuckin' cool."

"Ooh, how'd ya find it?" Lorna squeaks with untold curiosity.

"Yeah, I...I liked it."

Lorna scoffs, and with that her character is buried deep beneath a menacing scowl. "What, that's all you gotta say bout' it?"

"Um..." Now Piper has a valid reason to feel fearful. She assumes, just from Lorna's frantic stage presence alone, that the band's lead vocals is far more than what meets the eye. With Alex and Nicky, there's no _complete_ facade (because there _is_, of course, but it's subtle), but Lorna Morello defies that to the upmost.

It's not as if Piper can talk, anyhow; she, like Lorna, has played a monotonous game of dress up for the entirety of her awakening, caged and confined to the doll's house.

"Stop scarin' her, doll." Nicky chuckles, and Piper breathes a silent sigh of solace. "You got fuckin' horns growin' outta those ears." Lorna directs her deathly grimace Nicky's way, but Nicky is wicked sharp to diffuse the tension. "I mean, you're still beautiful an' all, and you're _totally_ my angel."

"Awww, you're such a mushball, sweetie." Lorna giggles, strangely and scarily prompt to jump back into her skin. Piper feels somewhat unnerved by the unrealistically rapid mood switch.

Nicky grins, skyrockets forward and locks Lorna's lips in a soaring kiss. Lorna returns it with much force and flings her arms around Nicky's neck, their bodies conjoined, as if they're the only two in the whole world. It deepens, quickly transpiring into a hot, heavy embrace, and when Nicky stealthily slides her hand into the depths of Lorna's waistband, Piper feels a blistering warmth striking her system; ucomfortable but undeniably, verminously turned on, two women in such solid engagement satisfies her innermost cravings.

Piper gathers that Alex is accustomed to this sight, for her only reaction is to laugh, and _goddamn_, is it sexy. Hoarse, harsh, and with an acquired taste of a bitter bite. "Guys, PDA. You're really scaring Tiny Tits now."

Nicky pulls away, a faint stain of lipstick coating her upper lip. "Like you wouldn't get off on us, Vause. Bet we'd be your dream on PornHub. Lorna's tits are a fuckin' eyesore for the camera."

"You sayin' I look like a porn star, Nichols?" Lorna challenges, another frown taking hold. "Well you look like fuckin' Edward Cullen, asshole."

Nicky drags her sleeve against her mouth, wiping away the lipstick. "You and that fuckin' Twilight. See, Tiny Tits," She faces Piper, "I had to go see that shit _eight _times cos' this one's obsessed with sparkles and 'sexy' dudes with skin as pale as Morticia over here."

"Never say 'sexy' and 'dudes' in same sentence ever again." Alex cringes, visibly uncomfortable by the concept. "It's just weird when that you say hetero shit like that."

"You a heterophobe now, Vause?" Nicky asks, always gearing for the challenge.

"Fuck you, Nichols."

Alex returns to her beer and casts her head back, chugging down a substantial portion of the drink. Piper, pleased to have taken a back seat in the scene, pays discreet attention to the dynamic that transpires before her. Nicky and Lorna exchange softer butterfly pecks, and Alex's conscience is swept away; she stares, vacant of all purpose, at something or another, fingers tight around the elongated neck of the bottle. Eyelids threatening to clamp down, there's an air of terrific tiredness circulating in a cyclone. It's that moment which bolsters through Piper's sight, a rumbling revelation emerging from the gravel; Alex's cocksure persona is pretty fucking atrocious.

"Oh my god, you guys are the sweetest!"

Piper is dragged out of her thoughts, and by Alex raising her gaze, it's apparent that her own awareness has resumed. Daya, in all her itching anticipation, approaches Nicky and Lorna from behind the bar. Alex curiously traces Daya's features with oddly alert eyes, and Piper wonders what she's thinking about the whole ordeal. At least the conversation no longer centres around her (which, in her daily normality, would've irked her to no avail, but she can make exceptions here).

Nicky and Lorna, presuming that Daya is addressing them, cease to kiss and turn their heads her way. Daya coos, undeniably overwhelmed by the instant recognition. "I'm _so_ happy you're back together!"

"Yeah, you and me both, kid." Nicky grins, flinging an arm across Lorna's shoulders. "I love her."

"Aww!" Lorna squeals, nestling into Nicky's side. "I love you too, honey!"

"See, Flaca!" Daya calls out. "I told you they're soulmates!"

Flaca reluctantly steps over, lips contorted into a forced smile; Piper gathers that Flaca, much like herself, is completely taken aback by the bizarre appearance of such a famed trio. "Oh, uh...yeah, totally. You guys are like, _super_ cute."

"Can we get an autograph?" Daya hands a Sharpie and notebook to Lorna.

"Of course, hon." Lorna accepts the items and plants them neatly on the surface. "What're your names?"

"Dayanara. And this is Flaca."

Lorna leans into Nicky's ear, careful to keep her voice down. "Ain't heard those ones before, Nic. Spanish, right?"

"I don't fuckin' know." Nicky mumbles, taking a swig of her beer. "Might be Mexican. Or Puerto Rican."

"Well they're all the same, ain't they?" Lorna murmurs back before shifting away and cracking a cheery smile at Daya. "Okay, sweetie, how'd ya spell that?" She picks up the pen. "D-A...?"

"Just write Daya. It's D-A-Y-A."

Lorna nods. "That's a lovely name, honey. Very exotic."

As Lorna inscribes her message on the paper, both Piper and Alex watch the cursive letters bleed out before their eyes jolt back into contact, and _fuck_, that mesmerising, enthralling stare is bolted in place, and it's forcing Piper in, bewitching her, cursing her, mind filled with spells and hexes she can't combat. Then the corners of Alex's lips curve and she tosses a wink Piper's way, exposing Piper to a whole blast of new incantations beyond anything she can ever control. Piper gulps, tears her eyes away, but Alex draws her back in, the hypnosis taking full effect.

And then Alex withdraws all her enchantments, obliterating Piper's trance in a beat. She looks away, turning her attention to Lorna, and Piper exhales in a waver of relief. Once Lorna finishes her signature, she slides the pen and paper over to Nicky, who scribbles down her initials. Piper starts to wonder what characteristics Alex's autograph possess, but she doesn't dare demand it.

Nicky silently hands over the pen and paper, eyes collapsing, and Daya gladly accepts them. Her next port of call is to face a distant Alex, and Piper quickly realises what she's after. "Hey, uh...Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I get your-"

"Hi!" Brook exclaims, whizzing into the scene and knocking Daya straight out of the conversation. "I'm Brook! I haven't exactly listened to much of your music, but I absolutely _adore_ the underlying factors you implement in your work! It is _so_ incredible to highlight such integral issues in today's society! Honestly, you guys are _s__o_ radical and controversial and I love it! Is it on purpose or is it, like, fantastically spontaneous?!"

Alex blinks, pushes up her glasses, struggling to digest Brook's surfeiting rambles. "Shit, that was a lot..." she stops, stealing a moment to think, "um, I guess to answer your question, me and Nicky write about ninety percent of our material, so yeah, we're always looking to piss people off. It's definitely intentional."

"As an, uh, example for your school studies," Nicky intrudes with a shameless smirk, "I would say 'nice rack, Mulan' if I was lookin' to bang ya. But ya see, I've got a sexy piece of Italian ass all to myself, so I ain't fuckin' anyone else."

"Nicky!" Lorna hisses, a painful humiliation crossing every inch of her countenance. "How is she Mulan if she's only half-Asia?!"

"See?" Nicky shrugs. "Pisses someone off. One of our multitudes of talents."

"Or, as an alternative," Alex continues, all confusion dispersed, "I'd say to Blondie 'damn, you might be Tiny Tits, but that doesn't fool me. I know you're a fucking whore.'"

And then it all comes down to the ground, gravity pulling, pushing, prodding at her blossoming emotions. Does Alex _like_ her? No. Impossible. Ridiculous. Pathetic. Absolutely, invariably, positively _not_. Alex Vause has only known of her for a matter of minutes; surely she wouldn't display _that_ much interest in a _goddamn_ barmaid.

Brook's eyes widen in a shock horror, and Piper realises her colleague has driven the route of a very different interpretation. "This is sexual harassment!" She enters like a tornado in battle, all guns blazing and blistering in a frantic fury. "You two are misogynistic, arrogant assholes with no fucking respect for anybody! And you," she glares absolute daggers at Lorna, "are a racist fucking bitch!"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Chill the fuck out, man." Nicky drawls, chugging down the last of her beer. "I told Vause to say 'Tiny Tits' cos' she thinks Blondie's cute. And Lorna ain't racist, so don't you fuckin' dare pull any shit with her. What happened to 'oh, yeah, I'm _totally_ obsessed with all the fuckin' controversial shit you pull?'"

_Oh my god._

_She thinks I'm cute._

_Fuck, I feel sick. Am I dead? Oh, I'm totally fucking dead. This isn't real. Nope, no, certainly not real._

The lethal storm has reached its worst, and Piper Chapman is caught in the centre of it all.

"You projected your controversial attitudes on to me and Piper!" Brook persists, adamant to keep the conflict spinning on the wheel.

"The mystery lady finally a name!" Nicky laughs, tossing her arms in the air. "The Pied Piper of Hamelin! Catch any rats on the job, Piper?" Nicky looks to Piper, who cowers under her glare, unable to suppress the pinch of abborrence lining her stomach. "Cos' I think you've got one right here!"

"Ugh!" Brook whines. "Why do you have to have an answer for everything?!"

"Well why do you, eh?"

"Because I am a proud feminist with rights, and I represent a generation of voices that deserves to be heard, and you can't-"

"See, uh, there's this little suicidial voice in my brain, right?" Nicky thumps the side of her head. "So it's constantly talkin' to me, tellin' me all the bullshit about my sorry excuse of an existence. A-And y'know, I'll seriously start to succumb to it if it means I can get away from your fuckin' whining."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" Brook exclaims. "Walking in like you own the place! People like you make me sick!"

"Yeah, uh, funny story. Y'know Big Boo? Leader of the bull-dyke confederation? Well, she co-owns this club. Invested in a whole fuck load around New York. So, uh, technically - via the generous extension of my he-she-who-what bandmate - we do 'own the place' you speak so highly of."

"Oh my god, Nicky, just stop it." Lorna groans, but Nicky refrains from paying her the slightest interest, too riled up to surrender.

"That's complete nonsense!" Brook scoffs. "I've never seen any bull-dykes in my life! I don't even know what a bull-dyke is!"

"And I'm out." Alex rises in her seat. "Call me when you're sober, Nichols."

Piper feels her idiocy flashing full throttle; all this time, they've been _high._ To what extent, she can't possibly tell. Granted, she's had a small exposure to the wondrous world of narcotics, only ever witnessing Polly's ridiculous attempt to smoke marijuana in school. Such ignorance should be exempt, but Piper refuses to provide herself with the benefit of the doubt, refuses to not experience any kind of dismay or disappointment or fucking trauma at the wooshing realisation that Alex Vause is on drugs, because maybe, just _maybe_, she doesn't think Piper is cute. It's the drugs possessing her shell like a demonic entity, forcing her to utter meaningless, empty nonsense she'll certainly regret.

As the great battle between Nicky and Brook recommences, Alex leans into Piper's personal space, and all Piper can consider is _she's on drugs, she's high as fuck, _but _god_, is her fragrance divine. It wafts into Piper's nostrils, travelling slow, sensual, so she can inhale it in like her own drug of choice. A woody, leathery scent clouds her senses, stimulating an unknown warmth in her.

"You wanna go somewhere that's a bit...less crazy?" Alex mumbles, voice low and breath hot to the touch.

_What?!_

That gnashing feeling of terror chews into Piper's conscience as that earthly essence sweeps through her body. "I-I'm working..."

"I meant the other end of the bar, kid." Alex retrieves her beer. "Everyone's pissin' me off. I need a breather."

"Uh, sure..."

As Alex heads to the other side, Piper finds her breathing shallow and heavy. This isn't real. This isn't real. _Fuck_, she's never experienced such a perpetual anxiety before. It climbs, slow and steady, like a rollercoaster, hits its peak, waits, then races forward at a masterful pace, acid winds whipping against her cheeks. And the process repeats so long as Alex Vause is there, never failing to unlock her stifled self from childhood.

* * *

** _1994_ **

_"Piper!" Cal tumbles into Piper's bedroom, cracking a toothy smile. "Let's play Sonic the Hedgehog! C'mon, I'll get the Genesis set up!"_

_"Cal, I have homework." Piper exhales over her desk, pen in hand. "Go and ask Danny to play."_

_"Danny's got homework, you've got homework, dad's got homework, grandma's got homework!" Cal whines. "Why is everyone so BO-RI-NG?!"_

_At twelve years old Piper Chapman is just that. Boring. Everyone's made that clear. Never willing to dive into the deep end, she's a high-strung bundle of prissiness and relentless fear, always needing to do the correct, appropriate thing no matter the circumstance. Maybe it's the inhumane standards her parents have set, wanting nothing more than the epitomy of pure perfection. Or maybe it's gridlocked into her genetics; a mutation of sort that causes her immunity to exerting excitement. Cal's evidently snatched that trait from her._

_"Ugh, _fine." _Piper groans, turning in her seat to feed Cal's decripped attention span. "__What do you want me to do?"_

_"I can't get past the Labyrinth Zone! I need help!"_

_"But it's cheating if _ _I help you. You've gotta learn how to do things yourself, y'know. You're eight."_

_"What?! Unfair! You're older and cleverer, so you're better at games! Please, Piper! Pretty please!"_

_"Fine, fine." Piper hops off her chair, a mountain of textbooks left in their solitude. "But only cos' you're being annoying."_

_"Yes!" Cal hobbles up and down. "Thank you Piper, thank you!"_

_As Cal scurries down the stairs, Piper reluctantly trudges behind him. She can't restrain that tightening, gripping rope in her chest; it's lassoed around her lungs and squeezes them tight, unforgiving in its conquest to instigate Piper's most ferocious anxieties. This insatiable appetite to control anything and everything has eternally plagued her mind, and when such is melted in the perils of Cal's eruption, she can't contend with it._

_And then, when she does reinstall that lost dominance, instructing her brother with every possible twist and turn in his game, she finds herself relinquishing the monotony of her existence._

_"Yes!" She exclaims, unusually loud. "That's it, Cal! Go there!"_

_"What?!" Cal squeals. "Where?!"_

_"There, there!" Piper frantically wags a finger. "Go there! Look, where I'm pointing! And attack the Badnik!"_

_"What's a Badnik?!"_

_"Piper, darling, please." Carol strides into the room, lips etched into a familiar frown, her face metallic and frozen to the touch. "The squealing, it's...it's unbearable."_

_Piper already knows she won't be listened to, but she doesn't refrain from trying. "But...but mom-"_

_"Proper young ladies do not feel the need to scream themselves silly. You're not one of those...ethnic children, are you? God forbid those horrid diseases they bring into the country."_

_"That's racist, mom!"_

_"Piper, I warned you about the shouting. Dear god, you've grown into an obtuse ruckus since starting junior high. I think you'll be needing some refresher etiquette classes."_

_"What's...eeti-qu-ettey?"_

_"A school of politeness and dignity. Two factors you've seemed to be lacking as of late. I knew that wretched public school was an awful idea, but there's no getting through to your father."_

_"But...but I like it there. I've got friends."_

_"And you'll make new friends at the charm school."_

_"But-"_

_"No arguments, Piper. This rambunctious trait of yours must be made dormant. You can't implode through life like this. You're going to be a lawyer, you know."_

_Piper sighs. "Yes, mom. I know."_

_And with that, Carol waltzes out of the room as stoically and methodically as she entered. Piper sinks down into the sofa, and even the plush cushioning feels harsh and callous on her spine._

_Cal sniggers, relentlessly prodding Piper's arm. "Ooh, Piper's in trouble-"_

_"Ugh!" Piper repels at the sudden pinch. "Why do you get away with everything?"_

_"Cos' I'm the stupid one."_ _Cal shrugs_, _and without another passing thought, he resumes the game. _


	6. Lesbo Aphrodite Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex's arrogance gets the best of her. Piper finally recovers lost confidence, but the approach is far from what she'd intended. Bad blood between Nicky and Lorna resurfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the guest that mentioned sober Alex seeking Piper out, you just may have read my mind for what is yet to come! Alex won't always be such an asshole. It's just, you know, when she's constantly on drugs, it's kind of impossible for her to be a complete charmer.
> 
> Prepare for the angst trip. It'll get better (kind of). I promise.

Alex is certain she'll have Piper squirming in her possession by the end of this talk.

The woman is a stammering bundle of nerves and hesitance; amusingly unable to string her words together, Alex is granted an absolute power. A vulnerable, submissive, lost lamb that Alex can prey upon, sinking sharp teeth into that bright-eyed innocence and tearing it into a hundred thousand pieces. Piper is a dazzled, stricken sheep, no doubt the same as them all, hobbling along in her woeful worship, but there's a peculiarity, an anomaly shining through, one that pronounces her distinct to the herd. Alex can't quite tap her finger on it, because Piper is still a sheep no less, and yet there's almost an ounce of wolf within; a ferocious figure contained within the iron bars, hardly ever free from captivity. Nontheless, such priority hasn't been permitted, and Piper is still the starstruck little creature Alex finds painstakingly adorable.

Piper stands above a seated Alex, upright and rigid. She blinks, blank in her gaze; almost mechanical, as though every thought, every action, is meticulously calculated amidst the grinding gears. Icy blue orbs fixate on the shot glass she's scrubbing, and Alex watches those long, nimble fingers dipping in and out. She gulps back her beer, satisfied by the cool, bitter liquid gushing down her throat, her eyes refusing to leave Piper's handiwork. Blood rushes below, fuelling a twitch in her pants, and she gulps, quickly glances up, forcing every begging inch of herself to lay down low. _No, not yet. Wait._

"So..." Alex begins, accounting for the crippling emergency, and the blazing heat is sufficiently extinguished. "Your parents named you Piper. Have they always been determined to ruin your life?"

Piper's eyes dart from side to side in a blatant act of bewilderment. "Uh, probably..."

"Still cute though." Alex chuckles, thriving on Piper's innocent form. "You're a waitress in this joint, right?"

"I'm...more of a bartender." Piper mumbles. "Or I could be a waitress, I really don't-"

"Mmm, I love a good uniform." Alex winks, necking back the remains of her beer. "Especially on a woman as beautiful as yourself."

Piper gulps, hesitates, those frigid eyes widening, all while a hot, rosy flush spreads across her cheeks. Like an angel who hasn't yet been exposed to the grotesque reality of life, and an angel that Alex feels compelled to shelter at all costs; even though she, the devil in dangerous disguise, is doing just the opposite, steering clear of her moral demands. Alex watches Piper's lips part, then close, and then part again, the power of her speech stunted in its tracks.

"Y-You...you're a really good guitarist." She finally splutters out, a quirky randomness splurging through her simple statement.

Alex stifles another chuckle; she's heard that same damn thing a million and one times. It remains a levelled constant in her existence, agonisingly monotonous (sure, she appreciates it, but she _knows_ she's fucking good). And yet, when Piper utters it under her breath, all in her hysterical, obsessive buffoonery, it's _different_. Alex still can't quite tap her finger on it.

"Well I do it for a living, babe." Alex replies, unable to hinder her growing grin.

"It must be difficult." Piper states stoically. "To, um...sustain."

"Music? Yeah, it's not easy. I've dedicated twenty years of my life to it. But I love what I do. And when you love something, _man_, is it worth all the bullshit you've gotta endure on a fucking daily basis."

So she tells a tiny tattle. _And?_ That's the core of her reputation. Persistent lies, deception, with a hefty sampling of heroin served on the side; _drugs _are what she adores, cherishing with all her might. What she truly, earnestly _loves _with every minuscule inch of her being. Music, in all its hedonistic excess, has suffered under her brutal reality, no longer standing at the forefront of her innermost desires. That's tragic.

Piper nods, ignorant to the truth. "I understand-I mean, I don't _really_ understand, because I'm not a famous rock singer, and I'm hardly musically inclined, but-"

"Hey, chill out, Piper." Alex reassures; she _wants_ Piper to loosen the knot of tension. Fucking her won't be viable if she doesn't. "It's fine. I'm not asking you to understand."

Piper exhales, brilliant blue eyes boring into Alex's, and _fuck, _she's even more stunning than ever. "Sorry if I'm...y'know, being all weird."

"I associate with the queerest ensemble of queers in the United States. I think you're okay."

Piper softly smiles, a comfort exuding through, and she appears to receive a sprinkling of confidence. "What's your favourite song? Out of the ones you've written?"

_"__Fuck." _Alex murmurs, instantly cast aback by Piper's enquiry. "I never get asked this. I've wrote so much stuff. I kid you not, I've got fucking storage units of old notebooks with lyrics and music just scribbled down. But out of all the songs that have made it through the crazy scrutiny of my manager, the band, the recording studios, well..." she stops; every thought, scrambled and churned in her contorting mind, has no chance of being processed, "honestly, I really don't know."

"'Lesbian Request Denied' is iconic."

"Oh, yeah. I wrote that when I was sixteen, depressed and constantly hating my sexuality. God, I was so fucking emo."

"Did you have the...emo look?" Piper outlines her hairline with hovering fingertips. "With the bangs?"

"For like three years!" Alex laughs hearted and whole for the first time in what feels like _centuries_, and it's a sudden shock to her sinister system, but a good shock nonetheless. "I was so fucking extra!"

"Don't say that." Piper says. "I bet you looked great."

Alex shakes her head. "I was seriously such a tryhard. And none of my friends were emo, so I was just reinforcing my level of freakazoid by completely standing out."

"Maybe you'll show me a picture some time."

_Damn._

Alex teasingly raises an eyebrow. "'Some time', huh?"

"O-Oh, no..." Piper stammers, rapidly retreating back into her cocoon. "Sorry, that that's not what I-"

"Piper, _relax_. Seriously, I'm not gonna bite you."

"Okay, okay...thank you."

"For what?"

"Just...for being nice. And patient."

_Nice? _Alex Vause has been called countless names - good _and_ bad - but _nice_ is most certainly not on that list. Not even residing at the bottom, sandwiched between insults from time ago. Alex doesn't do _nice. _Her attempts to be amicable often exhibit a snarky bark or a crude comment; _never_, admist her hunt, have the prey perceived her to be anything other than a charmer, a wooer, someone _famous_ that disgustingly disillusions their every comprehension of self-restraint. Never, _ever_; has a woman genuinely noted that ounce of good. Not until Piper (whose surname Alex is yet to discover) expressed such recognition; stunning, sexy Piper, with a shimmering radiance too gleaming to defy, saying that she, Alex Vause, internationally renowned _asshole_, is _nice_. And that's incredibly refreshing.

Alex smiles lopsidedly, that soft, supple numbness weighing on her mind; this woman is something else. "So what were _you_ like as a kid?"

"Pretty boring. I was 'Perfect Piper,' the alleged goody-goody. I was one of those kids who'd penalise you if you watched an R-rated movie, but then secretly snuck off to watch said movie."

"So you were a hypocrite."

"It's a genetic Chapman trait. We're all liars and hypocrites." Piper shrugs, and Alex gathers she's struggling to keep blasé, so she chooses not to pry any further; she's contended with enough family animosity from Nicky to recognize those signs, even when she _is_ high.

"You would've hated me in school. I always watched R-rated movies and bragged about it in class the next day. God, I thought I was so fucking cool."

"Well I think you're _very_ cool." Piper flashes a gleaming grin.

"Now I might be cool, but back then I was such a loser."

"So was I."

As Piper and Alex drift into an easy silence, Alex recalls the events that led to their unanticipated conversation, and a tingle of humiliation starts to vibrate in her core. It's not as though _she'd _need to apologise; Piper didn't appear distraught by Alex's sexual remarks (for reasons, that Alex believes anyhow, are obvious), but Nicky's forceful explosion hadn't been necessary. She's often forced into the deep end of the pool, expected to atone for mishaps that aren't always her own to claim. Red, in particular, is often the one responsible for driving her off the diving board. And yet, if she wishes to impress Piper - which she feels _every_ strange inclination to do so - such regret needs to be expressed.

"I'm sorry about Nicky by the way." She finally says, shattering the dwelling silence. "She's my best friend and I love her like a sister, but she's got a really fucking big mouth. What happened was uncalled for."

"I wouldn't worry about it." Piper shrugs, smiling. "But Brook, on the other hand, well..._she_ might want a restraining order enforced by the time this evening's up."

"Nicky's harmless, Piper." Alex chuckles. "She's all talk. The only woman she'll ever want is Lorna. I think your friend is safe."

"She's really not my friend, but that's reassuring."

"Yeah, I can understand why."

"Mmm." Piper hums absently. After a brief pause, she speaks up, utilising that newly discovered assertion. "When's your next concert?"

"Well we've got this New York gig booked for a couple more months, up until the holidays start, and then there's a tour around the States from January to June. We're not doing any international tours until 2011. My manager can't be asked with all the hassle."

"That's fair. It must be exhausting."

"It is, but I get by."

"So, uh...I might come to another New York gig."

"Yeah, that'd be awesome." Alex grins. "In a fortnight there's a Halloween thing we've got planned, so it's gonna be different from the one you went to. Oh, and come in fancy dress. Security won't let you in without it."

"Wait, _seriously__?" _Piper frowns with all the preciousness of a gemstone; it's just as endearing as her striking smile.

"I'm just fucking with you, Piper." Alex smirks, amused by Piper's delightful self. "They don't give a shit."

"Oh, uh...right."

A spark of genius lashes at Alex's vision. Her hand launches into her interior of her leather jacket, and moments later she pulls out a printed piece of card. "Tell you what," she holds it out to Piper, "I want you to take my business card, on it you'll see Galina Reznikov's contact details. She's my manager. Call the number, give reception your name and ask them to put you through to her. I'll tell Galina who you are and she'll send you a free ticket. Just give her your address."

"Shit, really?!" Piper exclaims, an uncontrollable excitement incinerating any lasting composure. "You're not fucking with me again?!"

"Unless my manager's pissy towards me, which is around ninety-five percent of the time, then yeah, she'll be obliging."

"I..."

"Cat got your tongue?" Alex winks. "Going by my incredible psychic abilities, I think you're looking to say 'thank you.'"

"T-Thank you..." Piper takes the card and peers down, briefly scanning through the details. "Wow, is amazing."

"Sure."

Now she'll be irresistible. Piper _will_ want her. All there's left to do is place a soothing hand atop Piper's shoulder, lean in, plant a single kiss on her delightful lips, and then she'll be-

"Can I, um, get your autograph?" Piper squeaks.

"Oh." Alex says, slightly damp with dismay. Okay, so she'll be fucking her fairly soon. "Of course, yeah. It's not cursive and shit, but I like it." Alex unveils a marker pen (always helpful to have one at hand) and a spare business card of Red's. She takes a second to doodle away and smirks, relishing in a rather interesting way to grasp Piper's optimum attention.

Singing off in harsh, blocky initials, she hands it over to Piper, who quickly glances down at the inscription. But when she starts scanning quite attentively, twice, thrice, digesting those exact same words, her tone dries fruitless and bare.

"You addressed it to 'Tiny Tits.'"

Alex chuckles. "Well-"

"_After_ I told you what my name was." Piper's shy softness transmutes into a scathing scowl.

_What the fuck?_

"What, did Mulan hypnotize you into a feminist advocate when I had my back turned?" Alex scoffs, eyebrow arising. "Piper, it's just a nickname-"

"_We_," Piper gestures between them, "don't know each other. You had no right to speak to me in that way." Yes, she did. "Being called 'Tiny Tits' actually makes me nervous." And so atrociously, horrifically, _filthily_ turned on, no doubt.

"Are you sure that wasn't cos' your celebrity crush unexpectedly called out your cutest assets?"

Piper visibly gulps. "Y-You're not my...my celebrity crush-"

"Please, I've met enough Vauseinators in my lifetime." Alex rolls her eyes. "You're all the same."

"I-I...I have to go..."

"What, you're just gonna run off?" Alex scoffs. "You're not gonna confront the fact that you're so clearly obsessed with me? Shame, really. I was offering to spice up the workplace."

"I-I'm sorry, I'm not...I'm not gay. And I've got a boyfriend-"

"Of _course_ you fucking do." Alex growls, her cruising high taking a distasteful descent into exasperation. "What is it, do I intimidate you _and_ turn you on? Because you haven't stopped fumbling over your words like a fucking preschooler. I'm still a human being, Piper. _Jesus_. You're hot, you're obviously into me, so why not take a ride on the wild side, huh?"

It's the drugs speaking, not _her. _The drugs, still circulating her system, are determined to make their presence linger. Like a ghost on the sly, heroin crawls into her mind and possesses her entire conscience; only the poltergeist of rehab can extinguish the supernatural fright, and that's never worked in Alex's favour.

"I don't want to be a quick fuck, Alex-"

"Yeah, you fucking do. And I can give it to you, kid. All you gotta do is-"

"Do you actually speak English?!" Piper splurges out, lips loosening. "'No' does not mean 'yes, I will totally jump into bed with you because you're _obviously_ the most attractive person to walk the Earth!' When I say 'no,' that means 'back off!'"

Okay, well she's definitely not nice now.

A surprisingly stark contrast to the meek, forthcoming blonde from before, Piper is now the predator and Alex has fallen to her prey, susceptible to any and every strike of a hungry violence. Alex feels her ego descending and her desire ascending, higher than her high, because Piper is so _fucking_ unbelievably sexy when her steely eyes shoot absolute pointed daggers and her mouth, tugged into an insatiable frown, is awakened by that sudden splurge of fury. And _shit, _there's a slight tightening below, pressure propped against the constraint of her needed compression. An angry Piper, she discovers, is _such _a turn-on.

"Shit." Alex smirks, rightfully reclaiming her hunt. "I didn't expect you'd be so fucking feisty. It's actually kinda hot."

"Just...just _ugh!__"_

"Not a very impressive choice of terminology for someone with those qualifications of yours."

"You're insufferable!"

"Ah, now that's more like it."

"_Goodbye_!" Piper repels away, sharply turning her back on Alex.

"Do you leave all your important guests hanging around like this?"

Piper spins around, cool eyes ablaze. "Do you condescend all the women you encounter in clubs?!"

"So I presume you _won't_ be attending my concert if I detest you that much?"

"Ye-_no!__" _Piper asserts. "Maybe! I don't know! Bye!" Following true to her claim, the blonde strides off with all the mastery of a genuine predator.

"Well...now that was fuck up of fantastic proportions." Alex grumbles, running a harsh hand through her hair.

* * *

A gruelling regret gnaws on Piper's mind as she absently prepares a cocktail. All because, as per the norm, she'd been too terrified to undertake anything that refused to lock into her secured life of simpering simplicity. She's been yearning for an escape from the towering cage, and Alex Vause holds the glistening key. But then her _goddamn_ cursed temper had to flare up when all was running silky smooth, and she just _had _to unleash it all in Alex's fucking sexy smug face. It's what she does, she supposes. Pathetically desperate for change, and then pathetically horrified if any change paves its way for potential. Was it the overwhelming shock of Alex even being interested, in her or was it the fact that she hadn't wholly recovered from Alex's dream of a debut in _her _workplace? Either way, she'd exposed a farcial impression of herself all whilst Alex had been in her presence, and that couldn't be reclaimed nor forgotten.

_Fuck Alex. She's an asshole. She just presumes I'll sleep with her after she calls me fucking 'Tiny Tits.' Who does she think she is? I'd _never _let__ her fuck me._

Piper sighs, losing herself in the swirling liquid of the cocktail.

_Li_ _ar. Of course you would. This is Alex Vause here. God, Piper, you're so fucking spineless._

_Fuck Larry._

_Just fuck him._

"You two havin' a good time tonight?"

Piper peers up at the sound of Aleida's voice and watches her strut over to Nicky and Lorna. Aleida exercises her best (albeit non-existent) charms through a sickly smile and a surprisingly gentler touch to her tone, and it certainly grapples Nicky and Lorna's attention.

Nicky quickly scans Aleida's exposed body, and instantly Aleida tenses up, a gargantuan wrath strangling her faux attitude. "Now that you have delighted both my eyes and my vagina with _your_ unexpected presence, I am golden."

Lorna gasps, brown eyes agape. "_Nicky!"_

_Shit._

Aleida scoffs, making no attempt to conceal her revulsion. "I ain't no lesbian, so don't fuckin' try any shit, you mouthy little fucktard."

Nicky sniggers, utterly oblivious to Lorna's looming rage. "That's what a large proportion of explicity 'straight' women have established prior to the exposure of my delightful pussy eating talents."

"Nicky, I swear to fuckin' god!" Lorna threatens.

"You're a cocky shit, ain't ya?" Aleida retorts, hands propped on her jutted hips. "Well lemme tell you somethin'. You ain't ever gonna get your grubby fingers on this pussy, right? Cos' I like fuckin' dick. You know, the thing that's _supposed_ to be shoved up vaginas?"

"Oh, I know exactly what dick is, cos' I got one right in front of me!" Nicky exclaims. "Fuckin' homophobic cunt!"

"I will fuckin' throw you out if you try any more pervy lessie shit with me or my fuckin' staff! You hear me?!"

As Aleida storms away, right past a staggered Piper, Nicky sulkily grumbles under her breath. "Fuckin' homophobes. Can you believe it, doll? It's 2008. Thought we would've seen the end to all this-"

Lorna's palm soars across Nicky's cheek, and Piper swears she can feel the slap sting her own skin.

Nicky's eyes bulge in an electric shock as a hand flings to her face and strokes at the sharp pain. "W-What the fuck, Lorna?!"

"Don't you 'what the fuck' me, _Nicole!"_ Lorna growls, a harsh terror filling her gentle features. "I'm _so_ pissed at you! Why d'ya flirt with all these women when I'm right fuckin' here?! You beg me to get back with you and you pull stupid shit like this!"

"Look at you, callin' me that snot-nosed name." Nicky quips, grin darkening. "I'm well in the fuckin' in the dog house, eh? And, uh, far as I'm aware, _you_ were the one sobbin' at my doorstep last month, doll. Short-term memory loss gets the better of us."

"Fuck off and take that fuckin' smarty-ass big mouth with ya!" Lorna springs up from her seat.

"Aw, I love you too, baby. See you in the bedroom tonight, yeah? You lookin' for a whippin'?"

Lorna proceeds to crank up her middle finger. "Fuck you, you junkie crazy-haired lesbo Aphrodite _whore!"_

Nicky scoffs, reciprocating the obscene gesture. "Oh, yeah? Well fuck you too, you Barbie-brained bimbo _cunt!"_

_Fuck._

Watching Lorna charge off into the dancing scene and Nicky glare haplessly at an emptying beer bottle sends Piper's thoughts transpiraling. Sure, Larry's boring and predictable and relatively bland in taste, but he wouldn't dare address Piper in that way. She'd _like_ to think Alex wouldn't either. Irregardless, Piper figures Nicky and Lorna aren't quite the idealistic couple everyone is led to believe (it's not as if _she _cares, because she couldn't give a damn, but she's always been _fascinated_ by the personal business of others), and their actions further fuel the evidence of a performative presence.

"Whoa, and here's me thinking the C-word was _still_ prohibited."

_Fuck. _Piper can recognise that deep, throaty, lust-lacing chuckle in a beat.

Alex strolls along without a inkling of care and settles on the stool beside Nicky, who fires a frenzied glare her way. "Wanna talk about it?"

_"No."_

"Hi, Piper."

_Fuck._

Alex is staring at her with that vacant, delusional gaze and _shit_, it's making Piper tingle with a sneaking warmth she can't extinguish.

"Alex." Piper gives a curt nod, somehow suppressing every single urge to just pounce forth and cure her delicious urgency.

Before it _does_ get the better of her, she slowly, reluctantly faces away and steps to the other edge of the bar, yet again cowering from the change she's so desperately desired.

* * *

Alex is a woman of many talents, but handling other women doesn't topple into that category.

Nicky watches Piper tense in her tracks and scamper away into her shell. "Huh. Went well with Tiny Tits I see."

"I totally fucked that one up." Alex groans. "I swear, she's got these crazy mood swings. One minute she's all 'oh, fuck me, Alex,' and the next she's getting fucking defensive."

"There's plenty of pussy in the sea, Vause. You just gotta dive deep. She's just a barmaid."

"Yeah...you're right, man." Alex doesn't want to discuss Piper any further, because there's something about her, something she _still_ cannot fucking tap her finger on, that deems her so much more than a measly waitress (barmaid, waitress, same fucking thing), and it irks her when Nicky claims otherwise. So she switches the subject. "By the way, why _did_ Lorna call you a whore? I know you didn't wanna talk about it, but...it's shit when you guys fight."

"Dirty talk. Wants to be all dominant. I ain't allowin' it. But we'll figure it out. We always do."

Alex inhales, exhales, inhales again, all in a need to reinforce her unraveling patience, tightening the ropes of animosity.

"...did she hit you again?"

"S-She was justified, man-"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Alex scoffs. "Your relationship with Lorna is like a constant trip on the merry-go-round. Friends, friends with benefits, girlfriends, enemies, back to friends. _This," _she gestures to Nicky, "is why I can't be bothered to date anyone."

"Alex-"

"You know, a few months back, Lorna came to my apartment at _three_ in the morning, literally crying out her mascara, because you were too fucking high to realize you'd aimed a glass _vase_ at her head like a fucking dodgeball. Is that normal?"

Nicky sighs and pushes back her mass of locks, eyelids flickering. "Alex, we know Lorna's a bit Looney Tunes. She's just makin' shit up again. Uh, look, let's just imagine what it'd be like to fuck Sophia Burset's robo-pussy, ey? It's Boo's masturbation fantasy, so I'm thinkin'-"

"Whatever." Alex shifts off her seat. "You have fun with that. I've got enough shit going on as it is. I don't need to hear about your stupid soap opera bullshit."

"You fuckin' asked." Nicky spits, slumping in her seat.

When their relationship thrives, it pisses Alex off. When their relationship falters, it pisses Alex off. It's like the partition of her internalised insights - which would typically segregate such - has been lifted, and it leaves an intergrated bundle of bustling beastliness. Nicky and Lorna are like an incessant cyclone, inward spiraling winds infinitely rotating around Alex's sanity. And she's weary of it, weary of the droning dramatics pushing and pulling at her, weary of Nicky and Lorna being too _fucking_ self-involved to ever regard _her_ feelings. They're three of a kind, a tornado of a trio, her _best_ friends, but as they say, _two's company, three's still a crowd._ It's remained this way for eons, but for Alex, who can't _possibly _illustrate every spectacle of her emotional fragility, has refrained from confronting the issue. Shit, now maybe_ that's_ why, when they're together, with everything all hunky-_fucking_-dory between them, Alex feels a bubbling fury cast in the cauldron.

What with Red's warning message and that _goddamn _paparazzi and Nicky and Lorna's tumultuous tumble of a relationship and Piper just _rejecting _her out of nowhere and her _fucking _pathetic excuse of a conscience constantly inhaling her high and just _everything_ in her woeful life,

now she needs a good fuck.

* * *

Piper watches Alex sway away, out of her life (was she even _in _it to begin with?), and that tedious familiarity of insignificance batters her senses. Meeting Alex Vause lay the stepping stones to importance, the indisputable opportunity to be _something _that isn't a silly little girl, freshly sprung out of college, _still _dictated by her parents' invasive expectations. And yet, by succumbing to her fears of the new, the horrors of change, the gnarling anticipation of Alex _fucking _her, Piper has disposed of the opportunity for adventure, for _excitement_, for the crackling spice to her tasteless meal.

"You alright there, Blondie?"

It's not a deep, husky tone but a gruff, New York-rasp, and Piper immediately reigsters Nicky Nichols' presence. She spins around on her heels, and as if on cue, Nicky flashes one of her senselessly smug smirks. She lurks over the counter, neck craning, grin broadening beyond boastful, and Piper sighs, knowing she's unable to flee this unwanted conversation. After Alex's actions, what Piper doesn't need is Nicky carrying them forth.

"Oh, uhm...I'm okay." Piper nods. "Yourself?"

"Always bright n' sparkly. Your boss is a real treat, eh?"

"She's...difficult, to say the least."

"Ain't we all?" Nicky figures. "So, you got a thing for Vause. Who'd tell you'd be battin' for the same league?"

"I'm not gay." Piper states, a little too blunt to be believable. Nicky curiously cocks an eyebrow in response, and Piper feels every inclination to prove a solid point. "What? I'm not. I just...like people. What can I say, I'm a people person. I just like people."

Nicky chuckles. "First thing you gotta know about me, Blondie; I'm the Lord of the Lesbians. See, Big Boo _thinks_ it's her, but we all know it's me. And as Queerdom's godly ruler, my gaydar is on constant alert."

"Queerdom? Is that a..." Piper briefly considers the degree of offense in her incoming words, but she gathers Nicky is (particularly whilst high) quite adapt to a horizontal outlook on life. "_...lesbian_ term?"

"Eh, if you wanna call it that." Nicky shrugs, a sweeping nonchalance brushing her tone. "It's the movement for all things un-heteronormative. Me and Boo started it off. Keep up, kid. It's 2009. Time's a changin'. Soon we'll be havin' same-sex marriage. And then I'll be proposin' to my Lorna...but anyway, think of Queerdom as a, uh, kick-ass country for the gays."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Cos' you shouldn't be fuckin' afraid to accept who you are." Nicky affirms. Abeit brief, her cool, doped up demeanour starts to splinter, and beneath the peeling layers there's something incredibly tragic withholding from play; identically as disturbed as Alex Vause, and just as masterfully woven within an incredible act of sanity. "Don't pretend to be somethin' you ain't, otherwise you ain't livin' your life."

"Believe me, I've been doing that my entire life." Piper shrugs.

"Huh." Nicky nods. It's almost as if she registers Piper's exact situation. "Rich upbringing?"

Piper's normally one to divulge anything and everything, but Nicky's _famous_, and that's still an uncomfortable thought. "You could say that."

"Hey, we're virtually twins. Except, uh, you ain't of the Semitic origin, are ya?"

"No, no. I'm a WASP. Except I'm, well...if I had to label it, I would suppose I'm agnostic."

Nicky rolls up her sleeve, unveiling a sprinkling of small tattoos on her arm. Piper scrutinises them, and subconsciously she compares their simplicity to Alex's more intricate designs. "The parents - and I use that term _very_ loosely - lost their shit when I got these done. It's against Judaism, but hey, religion's bullshit and these bad boys marked the beginning of my endless journey to hell. Or, as we say in Hebrew, _Sheol."_

"You're just...unapologetically yourself." Piper frowns. What Nicky discusses baffles her (religious principles were foreign to her youth), but she gathers the general message. "All of you guys are. That should be respected."

"See, thing is Blondie, humanity is a collective capacity of cunts. Most people don't respect 'the real you.' So as assholish and as royally fucked up as we may be, we wanna combat that. And that's why Queerdom is always there, whenever you need it. When you wanna get out there and be 'the real you,' embracin' your bisexuality or whatever, you've got a figurative support system."

"Wow...thank you so much, Nicky. That's actually really kind of you."

"Plus, Vause wants to fuck your brains out, so embracing your inner homo will make that a whole lot easier."

_What?_

"Wait, how do you-"

"So my supply's running short, and my body is in much demand." Nicky sluggishly peels herself away from the stool. "I'll catch ya later, Tiny Tits." She pats Piper's arm. "Places to be, smack to snort. You know the feelin', right? When you just wanna forget everythin' about yourself?"

"Every day of my life."

"Cool, uh...okay, good talk." Nicky nods, popping an unlit cigarette into her mouth and trudging away with all the effort she can possibly concoct.

That familiar twisting revulsion squeezes Piper's sensitivity, draining her of any scrap of respect; she'd been drafted into the kindness of celebrities not once, but _twice_, and in both instances Alex Vause (an asshole who is _still _her fucking crush, lucky her) and Nicky Nichols (another attractive asshole, great) had happily disposed of such developing trust. Perhaps she'd address it aloud, likely at a later date, but then again Polly's sure to pass a snide 'I told you so,' and that case would be closed for further consideration. And Piper, in spite of all Alex's arrogance, doesn't want that. So she stands, scarily still like a statue, reflective of the surreal situations she'd been cast into.

* * *

Alex's prize is a petite woman with fiery ginger locks and bold blue orbs, drunk and dragged fresh from the dancefloor. She's not blonde - which would've been Alex's optimum treat - but her breasts are large and soft enough to encompass in Alex's palms, and her pussy is perfectly tight; a true treasure trove for Alex to pound mercilessly, lavishing it with attention well deserved. The woman releases a guttural moan with each thrust, and it fires Alex into a frenzy of lust. Her conscious self, warped and morphed by the drugs and the pleasure and the power, is no longer the upper hand, no longer the everlasting torment she has to endure. A hollow, shallow excuse of satisfaction, but just enough to keep her hazy bliss from tilting the iceberg.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuuuuck..." The woman breathes out, writhing under Alex's length entering and re-entering at full steam, like like a painfully constant rhythm.

Alex hits breaking point and enraptures inside of the redhead, firing all her load. Breaths become ragged gasps and the woman shudders beneath, eyes squeezed shut. Alex imposes a sloppy, tongue-tied kiss as she rides out her orgasm, all needs rehydrated, all cravings put to bed. She kisses back, _hard_, but Alex isn't one to withhold from keeping the dominant hand. Fighting back with immense pressure, it's like a powerful engine drive resisting the force that dares to oppose her. The woman whimpers against her lips, and it sends minute ministrations through Alex's body, but it serves little other purpose. It's petty and pointless, tediously trivial; the circadian rhythm of her volcanic self refusing to break the cycle of eruption.

And then it stops, but Alex remains intact, the lava only just beginning to flow.

"You...you didn't wear a condom." The woman murmurs in a hoarseness Alex finds minimally titillating.

"S'ok, babe," Alex murmurs, peppering the woman's elongated neck with empty kisses, "I can't get girls pregnant. Which means..." She trails off, smirking against soft skin, "I can fuck up that little pussy of yours again and again and again...until you're sick of holding my cum, of course."

"Fuck, Alex..."

She's not into dirty talk, but in this instance - this dazed, drugged, _un_occasional instance - she can make an exception.


	7. So You Like Pussy, Huh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piper makes a career-threatening mistake out of spite. A sober Alex, feeling remorseful, calls Diane for advice and lays down some ground rules for Nicky and Lorna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was intending on this being slightly longer, but I wanted to get it published. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S: Somebody did ask privately, but I'll say it here. there is a valid reason for the flashbacks. Similar to on the show, the flashbacks give an insight into the characters (mainly Vauseman, of course) so we can have some understanding of their actions.
> 
> P.S.S: Half the chapter got cut off so read on from where it left off!

Piper steps into the bathroom as a crawling lethargy starts to mark its decent, latching like a parasite onto what persists of her energy. Excess action has been hurled into her field of tedious tranquility, and it's a game she can't wholly recall; her mind, blurred and bruised by the concert and the rush to work and Alex Vause entering said place of work and Alex Vause _talking_ to her and Alex Vause making her horrifically titillating intentions known and Nicky Nichols confirming said intentions and it's all too _fucking_ much. It's a game unfairly devised, because Piper is on a team of one and is faced with innumerable challenges she has to combat alone, unwittingly handed all roles at once.

And then a gut-wrenching, shriek of a cry penetrates into Piper's ears, and she's at the very forefront of clearing her compassionate conscience. Lorna Morello, her petite, trembling body draping over the sink, sobs loud and relentless; a shockingly splitting juxtaposition to the confident, powerful singer mere hours before. Makeup irreparable, Piper traces the mascara-stained tracks trickling down Lorna's soft cheeks. It's like a classic cinematic illusion of drama, but one that is awfully true and raw to the touch.

"Lorna...are you okay?" Piper asks softly.

"I'm fuckin' _great_...!" Lorna seethes through a gritted smile, shuddering incessant. A second flies by and she frantically paws at the dark circles under her eyes, frantically gluing together the cracks of her performance. "Uhh, just got somethin' in my eye, is all...gettin' it out kinda hurts. Dunno what it is."

"I was just talking to Nicky, maybe she'll-" Piper soon stops herself, recalling the brutal altercation between them.

Lorna sniffles, blinking back fresh tears. "W-Where is she...?"

"I'm presuming she's outside."

"Doin' what...?"

"Smoking?" And _god_ knows what else.

Lorna shakily sighs. "R-Right, uh..." A stall door opens, and Lorna grows distracted by the slim figure striding out. "Right...okay, I'll just get outta' the way for the nice cleanin' lady."

"Excuse me, bitch?!" The woman sharply turns in Lorna's direction, voice booming in the small bathroom. "I am an Olympic silver medallist!"

"What, for Africa? I-I ain't heard of ya before, hon."

"Africa ain't a country, it's a fuckin' continent! And I'm American! Do you understand?! A-MERI-CAN! Tsk, get the fuck outta' my way, cracker! I'll make sure your band of racist dykes don't sing any national anthems at the Super Bowl!"

As the woman thrusts the door open and storms out, Piper cringes at the jarring slam. "_Shit_. I think that was Janae Watson-"

"Where'd ya say Nicky was?" Lorna wonders, hardly fazed by Janae's bolstering rage.

"Outsi-I literally just said this."

"W-Well, uh...oh, was nice meetin' ya, sweetie!" Lorna grins through rumbling tears, her act returning in all its faux glory, and swiftly scurries off into the blinding club scene.

Piper doesn't know whether to surge into hysterical laughter or screech in a perturbed disbelief. "Is _anyone_ fucking normal in this band?" She utters aloud, aiming at nobody in particular.

Normality is dull and greying, its tedious tendencies ever swelling up in Piper's conscience. But maybe, just _maybe_, this abnormality is even _worse_. She's been fucking _yearning _for it, the very singular reason for The Pussy Destroyers captivating her heart (and _one _member in particular), and now that it's here, teasing the tip of her tongue, ridiculing _every _element of her self-worth, she's emerged apprehensive.

"Oh my god, Alex, _fuck!__"_

Before Piper can register the ringing shrill, a young redheaded woman stumbles out of the cubicle, panting incessant, and makes a staggered exit. Moments pass and Alex Vause strides along, dark hair matted with sweat and a sprinkling of white lingering on her nostrils. Eyes dark, lustrous, and completely _fucking_ vacant. Smirking lopsidedly, she wipes the power off with the back of her sleeve and gazes purposefully into Piper's enraged countenance.

_Oh, god._

"Me meet again, Tiny Tits." Alex mumbles distantly.

"_We._" Piper utters with a curtness that shocks her senses. "You mean _we_ meet again."

"Whatever..." Alex drawls. "Same thing, yunno? Hey, didn't happen to hear anything while you were...wipin' shit off the walls and shit."

"Well you weren't exactly discreet about it." Piper states coldly as she tensely folds her arms.

"You won't tell on me, will you?" Alex teases, grinning goofily, and Piper feels a minuscule relief taking hold. Alex is sucked in a drug-induced daze that's impossible to escape, and it deeply depresses Piper to witness, but she's _still_ Alex Vause.

No. She's not. Or is she? _No_.

She's not, and Piper feels her core explode in a terrific volume.

"For mistakenly fucking a seventeen year old, or for being so off your face on something _highly_ illegal to realize you were fucking a _seventeen_ year old?"

Piper doesn't know why she says it, but those words - that _life_-ruining lie - fall freely from her lips, the gravity of her all-consuming, contemptuous resentment dragging it down. Her spreading fire is fuelled by a ravishing rage, an almost voluptuous vengeance, the _horrifying _need to exert some degree of futile revenge. It's all too _fucking_ much, that Alex Vause has just waltzed in with her stupidly _stupid_ smirk and has quite literally hunted Piper down in her feral fit. A life-ruining lie she doesn't consider twice before pronouncing aloud and cruelly anticipating Alex's response.

"What...?" Alex shakes her head once. Twice. Thrice. Refusing to believe the bullshit. "No, no. No fuckin' way. She wasn't seventeen. She was, like, tentysomethin'. Tentyone, I don't fuckin' know. Nice boobs, though."

"She was seventeen, Alex." Piper utters coldly; it rolls off the tip of her tongue with frightful ease. "I overheard her talking about how impossible eleventh grade is."

Alex laughs and winces all at once, shakily running a hand through her hair. "Fuckin' goddamn Christ, Pipes, ima' fuckin' paedophile."

_Oh, fuck._

What has she done?

Piper gulps, eyes gaping out. "_Please_ calm down, Alex." She quickly pleads, her foot-in-the-mouth disease striking yet another cursed chord. "You're not a-"

"Wow. Ima' real fuck up, aren't I? Jesus, if this gets out to the press-"

"Which it won't, because she got exactly what she wanted from you." Piper frantically asserts. "Now, if you'd refused her advances, she may have been a bitch and twisted the situation in her favour."

"Huh...you're smart, kid." Alex figures.

_What?!_

"Because a 'pretty face' doesn't mean I have a brain, right?" Piper scoffs, another wave of pure exasperation abducting her conscience. "That I wouldn't get offended by someone demeaning a part of my body because I'm unable to compute it as an insult? _Wow_, Alex. You truly are on a roll. Honestly, you're such an asshole. I was so stupid for believing you'd be anything else. And it's a privilege that I even liked you to begin with, because good people like myself would _never_ listen to your atrocious songs."

Piper doesn't know why she says it, but those words - such a despicable, degrading insult - are something she can't possibly reclaim. Her mouth and mind never enjoy cooperating with one another, but with Alex _fucking_ Vause stood before her, fried out of her _goddamn_ mind, it's all too fucking much for Piper to process.

"Fuck, fuck..." Alex murmurs. "I-I'm sorry. I-I...fuck, I gotta go..."

As Alex reels out of the bathroom, Piper hisses to herself in a surging fury. _"Fuck!" _She hollers. "Alex! Alex! _Wait_!"

Piper growls aloud, voice circulating the bathroom; furious with Alex, but even more furious with herself.

_You had a fucking chance with her, Piper!_

She's a clear drug addict, and Piper knows how destroying they can be, but somehow, strangely enough, Piper Chapman is only drawn in further.

Unless, of course, she truly _has_ fucked up Alex's life.

Maybe she's the asshole.

* * *

** _1991_ **

_Alex stands in the lone corridor sniffling and dabbling damp eyes. Jessica Wedge and her little minions had been particularly cruel that day, relentlessly unlocking the mighty tyrant of torture. Whatever the method, Jessica Wedge never withheld from making Alex's life an outlandish nightmare, and on an hourly basis no less. Her locker, decorated by harsh scribbles which spout cruel, conniving nonsense, was Wedge's freshest selection of sadism. The words 'weirdo music geek' and 'three jobs loser freakazoid' gape right at her, laughing sardionically at her suffering_._ As if in the admist of bear-baiting, Alex is solidly__ locked up in the iron cage while her terrible torturers jeer and chortle from the outside world._

_She peers down at her bruised replica sneakers and sighs. Aggressively wiping away the last of her pounding tears, she supposes there's little purpose to mourning what she's never had; infinitely impoverished and scathed of all opportunity even before her birth, it's not as though Alex Vause has a 'riches to rags' tale to tell. It's unfair, but Diane Vause has always claimed how 'that's life, Al. You got winners an' losers.'_

_At eleven years old, Alex isn't too sure whether she's keen on life or not._

_And e__ven so, Diane's comments only validate Wedge's repugnant behaviour; that Alex _is_ a loser and that music is, in reality, the only friend she's ever known._

* * *

"Oh _FUCK,_ Nicky! Oh, oh, ooohhhh!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck yeah, you fuckin' skank!"

Alex groans into her pillow for the umpteenth time, eyes clamped shut and a stabbing horror carving into her brain. Combining the raging monster of withdrawal wracking her nerves, her incessant deprivation of desire and Nicky and Lorna's loud screeches in the adjacent room, Alex would rather be anywhere _but _her apartment. She nestles deeper, the pang of pressure somewhat relieved, and attempts to repair her riddling fatigue, but when Lorna explodes out every obscenity under the sun, Alex emits a longer, louder grunt of frustration and grumbles nonsensically into the soft cushioning.

"_Harder!" _Lorna squeals in desperation, the walls offering no shield to her powerful cries. Well, she _is _a singer. That makes sense.

"Fuck me..." Alex whispers, lips shifting against the silky linen of her pillowcase.

Mustering up all her deceased strength, Alex begrudingly rises up like an undead fiend, sheets rolling off her body, and harshly rubs her stinging, unfocused eyes. Leaning towards her bedside cabinet, Alex retrieves her glasses and slowly slides them on. Her weary vision exhales in relief, but it doesn't repair the throbbing intrusion in her mind. She sighs, defeated by it all, at twists her body to peer up at the grand analogue clock resting on her wall.

Half-past three.

She'd arrived home at a most ungodly hour, absolutely obliterated with a blasting exhaustion, and collapsed straight to sleep. A typical night out. Now, what else can she recall? John had picked them up in the limousine, and Nicky and Lorna were furiously making out the entire journey. Typical of them. No. _Before_ that. What had-

_Fuck, Piper. Fuck._

A fan. Just a fan. Alex doesn't care to acknowledge them (on the inside, anyhow), but Piper Chapman possess a peturbingly unique character that snatches the ropes of Alex's life and twists them into a whole new knot. Fuck, she's just a fan, just an _insignificant _spec in the ocean of Alex's admirers, and yet,

Piper Chapman is different, somehow.

Piper Chapman, who switches like a flickering light from light to dark, hesitant and _adorably _shy to frozen cold. Piper Chapman, who has inexplicably captivated Alex's heart and has cruelly locked it away in the steel frame. She's crawled into Alex's banging brain like a leech, blinking blue eyes and golden blonde tresses and that unusually sensual monotone voice and _shit, _Piper Chapman has marked her territory, pronouncing the invasion of Alex's awakening.

Piper Chapman, the woman that _rejects_ Alex Vause.

_"You're such an asshole."_

She is.

_"...good people like myself would never listen to your atrocious songs."_

It's true.

"Fucking Tiny Tits..." Alex murmurs harshly. "Get outta my brain..."

She exhales and exits her bedroom, trudging along the hallway (while hearing _another_ shameless moan from Lorna), down the curved staircase and into her lavish, chic living space. Adorned with a wash of black and red decor, towering bookcases, her endless collection of guitars, and an unforgettable view of the New York City skyline through large glass panels, Alex's Manhattan penthouse is far from the one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn she'd once lived in.

She's _made_ it. Loaded with a bottomless pit of a credit card, the world is truly at Alex's fingertips. She gazes out at the skyscrapers and feels a wash of empowerment numb her twinging body. Damn. She's rich as _fuck. _Heck, she can purchase half of Madison Avenue, or maybe a hundred Ferraris. Fuck, she's so rich she doesn't even _know_ how much money she's got. It's just there, lurking in the shadows, comfortably relaxing in the confines of her bank account.

But is that a good thing?

In the corner of her eye, Alex spots a desolate syringe laying peacefully on the hardwood floors. Not far beside it is a tiny puddle of liquid Alex presumes to be remnants of heroin, but she can't be too sure. Sighing, she crouches down, picks up the syringe and wipes away the blatant evidence with her sleeve. She's got access to plenty, _plenty_ more (being a multimillionaire helps), its abudance filling the gaping hole in her soul, but that raindrop of heroin only reinforces its temporary recovery, the endless emptiness she can never discard.

Has she _really _made it?

She arises, stumbling to her feet, and gazes back at the vibrant skyline; standing on top of the universe, her omnipresence is invariable. 'Alex Vause is our god?' Yeah, she _is _fucking god. She's looking down on the greatest city in the world, hovering right above it all. But then she peers away, staring down at the syringe in her palm, and she chuckles bitterly at the sight. Yeah right. She's no fucking god.

She's satanic.

Her songs included.

Scoffing, she shakes her head and tramps to the kitchen, absently placing the syringe atop of the extensive breakfast bar. Her tastebuds suddenly tingle, her stomach growling and gurgling simultaneous and _shit, _she comes to realise she hasn't ate since nine o'clock last night. Halfway through the concert. Approaching her sleek, _beautiful _expresso machine, she picks up the first cup in sight, nestles it underneath the spout and presses a button to commence the grinding, the shattering of the beans into a hundred thousand pieces. The strong scent hits her senses and drifts through the penthouse; coffee is her _one_ priority prior to breakfast (or lunch, or dinner, _whatever_), and, much like her fatally flawed heroin, can't function in its absence.

And then, the silence is scathed.

"Nicky, oh my god, _FUCK!"_

"Yeah, you're a _real_ fuckin' Catholic, you slut! Bet you'd _love_ to be fucked in a chapel, huh?!"

_Jesus._

Alex growls, aggressively massaging her panging temple. A disorderly cacophony of orchestral obtrusity (quite ironic really) arises in the depths of her skull, and _fuck, _even the rich waft of coffee is insufferable. She _needs _heroin. It's her one fucking saviour in this _godforsaken_ hellish reality,

or is it? Would _Piper _say otherwise?

_Of course she would, Vause. Don't fucking kid yourself._

Alex detects her blocky phone vibrating against the worktop and swiftly scoops it up in her hand. At least it offers some distraction, _any_ distraction from the great affliction inside. Flashing up before her is an array of notifications from BlackBerry Messenger, the dreaded new application guilty of seizing everyone's minds in a constant interconnection.

* * *

** _Fifteen unread messages from 'so you like pussy, huh?'_ **

* * *

She taps it open and skims through the group chat (likely the most _terrible_ invention in existence), only settling on the final messages.

* * *

** _Boo: _ ** ** _Vause check out Us Weekly_ **

** _Boo: they hate you_ **

_Trish: LOL_

* * *

Alex rolls her eyes and selects a single key as her response.

* * *

_K_

* * *

But as always, her ego intervenes and perpetuates that raging desire to know_exactly_ what's being said about her. In a spark she's accessing the article and growls at the ridiculing sight bestowed upon her.

* * *

** _ The Pussy Destroyers' Lorna Morello Beds Fan Unrest as Alex Vause and Nicky Nichols Challenge Paparazzi _ **

** _The Pussy Destroyers' Friday night concert in Midtown, New York was of an unforgettable magnitude. With an audience of 20,000 in Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Knicks, the famously LGBT-orientated band are well on their way to rock world domination._ **

** _Fans scampered with excitement as Gina Murphy, Carrie "Big Boo" Black and Tricia Miller, the youngest and newest addition to TPD, left the arena in iconically stylish attire, but it was lipstick legend Lorna Morello that stole the spotlight. The leading vocalist strutted her stuff in a skintight leather dress and thundering combat boots as she kindly interacted with eager admirers, mightily resembling (and sounding) like a 1950s rockabilly chick. Ah, ever the charmer, Miss Morello._ **

** _When asked if she intended to leave TPD, Morello claimed to have never heard such rumours, but had instead confirmed (albeit indirectly) that Nichorello are back on the playing field! Nicky Nichols, clad in her hooded flannel and gold chain (well ain't she the poster child for chapstick lesbians?) showcased that affection by kissing Morello's cheek on CAMERA. Aw, we missed you two lovebirds!_ **

_ **However, this wasn't long following Nichols' rather...interesting remarks. Upon being questioned, Nichols proposed a snarky approach to a fresh headline: "Nicky ** **Nichols finally gets her head shaved to reinforce that she's, according to you wonderful people, a white supremacist!'" Wow.** ** Now THAT would be worth reading.** _

** _Alex Vause, easily the most popular member of TPD (and the most notorious when we take Nichols astray), looked effortlessly cool in her infamous leather jacket and secretary specs as she believed the press to be "multitasking with [their] morals" as they "can't be a homophobic supremacist and the leaders of a gay cult" simultaneously. Thanks, Vause! What wise, wise words! We'll be sure to take all your fantastic advice on board!_ **

** _Oh, we love you really, Alex. You're our dark, brooding dame. And we're all Vauseinators at heart! As they say, "V.A.U.S.E ARMY!"_ **

** _\- Written for Us Weekly by Larry Bloom_ **

* * *

"Well, Red's gonna despise me ten times more thanks to this asshole." Alex scoffs dryly. "_Great_._"_

Piper too.

Ugh.

_Fucking_ Piper.

"What is it with you...?" Alex chuckles, a darkness enveloping her query. "Why can't I stop fucking thinking about you...? Wait, _shit._.." Her eyes widen as a sudden thought rushes to her tortured soul. "I haven't called mom in weeks...maybe she'll, _fuck..._maybe she'll know how to sort this shitshow..."

Alex swiftly scrolls through her contacts before settling on 'Mommy Vause' (the others cackle in her face, but she couldn't give a shit). She selects the number and waits, a pang of anxiety ascending in her chest, heart pumping out, in, out, unsteady and unsure, as the monotonous dial tone rings in her ears. She hasn't even _bothered _to call her own fucking mother, the person who'd cherished her, supported her, _accepted _her during all the walks of her life, the good _and_, most vitally, the bad.

_"You're such an asshole."_

And then the dial tone dwells into an ominous quiet.

_"What the fuck's the matter with you, Alex?" _Diane suddenly demands, an unfamiliar hostility stored in her tone, and Alex internally cringes at the harsh sound. "_T__hree weeks and I don't get so much as a goddamn fuckin' phone call. Unbelievable._ _I've been tryin' to get through to ya, but you've obviously been _so_ fuckin' busy to talk to ya own mother."_

"Fuck...has it really been three weeks?"

_"Too busy getting shitfaced, huh?"_

"Mom, don't start." Alex sighs. "It is literally the same conversation every time we talk. I'm...I'm getting clean, okay? I've just had a lot on, what with these Friday gigs and the Stella Carlin negotiations-"

_"You know where you got your sixth sense for sniffin' out bullshit? You ain't getting fuckin' clean. Don't you lie to me."_

"Mom, please! Just...just trust me, okay?"

Nobody trusts an addict.

_"...right."_

_"FUCK,_ NICKY!" Lorna screeches, lungs put to their demise as panting squeals vibrate throughout the spacious apartment.

"Yeah, you like it when I spank you, you dirty whore?! Bet you fuckin' do! You wouldn't be screamin' like a fuckin' slut if you didn't!"

_"What the _fuck_ is that?"_

"Lorna and Nicky have overstayed their welcome." Alex subconsciously glances at the stairs. "As per normal."

_"Don't tell me._ _They're gettin' it off again, right?"_

"Generally, when one screams their partner's name, and their partner proceeds to call them a 'dirty whore'-"

_"Yeah, yeah." _Alex can sense Diane's eye roll even from the other line. "_You ain't gettin' all sarcastic with me, kid. God, I give up with ya friends. Three months ago and Lorna was ravin' on an' on 'bout that Christopher."_

"Mom, I...actually called to talk to you about something..."

Diane exhales into the speaker, and Alex can feel the soft breath of disappoint gusting into her ear. _"What the fuck did you do this time?"_

_Oh, fuck._

"S-So, uh..." Alex finds her fingers shuddering against the phone; only Diane Vause holds the torch to fully ignite her insecurites. "I went to a nightclub after my concert. And there was this barmaid, fresh out of college. I liked her, and I wanted to ask her out, but I wasn't exactly...appropriate."

_"...what did you do, Alex?"_

"Bearing in mind Nicky indirectly instigated this-"

_"Alex." _Diane says sharply._ "Stop blamin' other people."_

"_Fuck..._okay, so to get her attention Nicky said I should call her 'Tiny Tits,' and I thought it was funny, so I did, but before you start with your endless criticism, I assumed it didn't bother her. I mean, there was a bust-up between Nicky and this other barmaid, but the girl I liked was just...more nervous than anything. I don't know. Anyway, me and the girl started talking by ourselves, and, like, we _really_ got along. The conversation just flowed so naturally. Something was different about her, different from all the other girls I've tried to date, but I couldn't tell what."

_"Okay...so what happened then?"_

"Well, previously she'd mentioned about going to my concert - the one I'd literally just done - so that explained her whole anxiety around me. To kind of, I don't know...make her happy, I guess, I gave her Red's business card and promised her a free ticket to that Halloween gig."

_"That's really sweet of ya, baby."_

"Yeah, but then, well, things went pretty fucking pear-shaped. She asked me for an autograph, which I gave her, but I, uh...addressed it to 'Tiny Tits.' Instead of laughing, which I _seriously_ thought was how she'd react, she got really fucking pissy, told me to back off and then proceeded to ignore me. It's because, from what I'm guessing anyhow, that she'd already told me her name, but I ignored it and kept acting like a pretentious bitch."

Silence.

_"...fuckin' Christ, Al."_

"She was a genuine fan, not one of those overzealous lunatic stalkers, and I just treated her like a fucking dog shit laying around in Central Park. God, she's really got to me, mom. And I just...feel so shit about it."

_"Well you gotta do what's right and apologise to the kid. Go back this weekend before it's too late. And don't you listen to Nicky no more, alright? She's a fuckin' pain up my ass."_

"Jesus, mom. Nicky's been one of my best friends since sixth grade. Lay off her, okay?"

_"Apart from when youse two were in ya final school year-"_

"Mom, I don't like talking about that. Anyway, do you really think I should I go today? To the club?"

_"The sooner the better, kid._ _If she's really a big fan of yours, she'll be happy ya bothered to apologise."_

"Thanks, mom."

_"LASAGNA!" _Lorna shrieks out.

Alex clamps her eyes down in a gruelling humiliation. "That's their-"

_"Lovely, Al. I'll talk to ya later, a'right? Go apologise to that girl. You'll be happy ya did."_

"Okay, mom. I will. I love you."

_"I love ya too, ya fuckin' nuisance."_

"Bye, mom."

_"Bye, kid."_

Alex detracts her phone and ceases the call, sighing deeply as she does so. God, she doesn't know _what_ she'd do without Diane. Eternally loving, caring, the beacon of bright in Alex's turmoil, Diane Vause's shining presence is always consistent. She wouldn't regard actually _returning _to Piper's workplace, not now, not _ever, _but she supposes the one, singular way to prove that she _isn't _an asshole (at least, not the asshole Piper perceives her to be) is to repent for her actions.

Again.

"Mornin', Vausey-Vausey!" Lorna springs up into the room like a beaming light, hair mussed and tousled and cheeks a tinge of pink.

"Uhh...it's noon, doll..." Nicky croaks out as she slogs behind, her mane more frizzled and slovenly than ever.

Fuck. She'd nearly forgotten about those two.

"Mornin', noon, shmoon." Lorna taunts. "You think I care 'bout the time, Nic?"

"Ya can't tell the time for a start, Lorn." Nicky chuckles, earning a swift wallop on her dangling arm from Lorna.

"Oh, shut up, ya dick for brains!"

"What?" Nicky persists, energy slightly reclaimed. "So I ain't the 'lesbo Aphrodite whore' today? Seems like I got a different title for every day of the week."

"Yunno I didn't mean that." Lorna states. "Just like _you _didn't mean the whole 'Barbie-brained bimbo cu-_that_ word_._" She prods Nicky's arm with an intruding fingertip. "Right, hon?"

Nicky sniffles. "Hey, uh, beggars can't be choosers, eh? Sometimes you gotta say what you gotta say." As Lorna pouts, Nicky slides an arm around her waist, seizing her possession. "Doll, I'm jokin'. C'mon, quit with the cute frowny face and gimmie a good afternoon smooch. You did fuckin' great."

Nicky and Lorna gently peck lips, the touch bare between them. As Alex gazes out mindlessly, now hardly registering the couple's presence, every itching thought is cast back to Piper, and a vortex of despair twists her brain, mauling every malleable emotion she's accursed to. Piper, who'd actually attempted to _talk _Alex out of her consuming high, Piper, who, despite all that had transpired in an uncontrollable calamity of human insanity, attempted to _calm_ the frenzy of her fume. But heroin is a power that exceeds any other, and its incredible vigour can't be undermined; it won't _allow _itself to be undermined. An obsolete blessing, heroin is far, _far_ beyond any foe, and yet it forever persists as Alex's truest friend.

"Hey, you got a lighter, Vause?" Nicky abruptly asks as she detatches herself from Lorna, and the suddenness of her speech partially stunts Alex's agony. "Dyin' for a smoke."

"What I don't quite understand," Alex skips to the chase, never one for frolicking around the matter at hand, "is why you felt it was necessary to have a post-fight sexathon in _my_ apartment. I hear _every _fucking word."

_"Su casa es mi casa." _Nicky grins obviously as she crashes down on the sofa. Lorna plops beside her, and the couple's limbs are instantly intermingled in a web of caresses.

"What?" Alex scoffs. "Since when?"

"We've been lesbros for years, Vause. That's worth the rent in gold."

"I'm pretty sure you guys fucked in my closet." Alex grumbles in an even tone.

"What can I say, eh? We practically lived in those fuckin' closets when we were kids. Now what's for lunch?" Nicky eagerly rubs her hands together.

"Hm, strange." Alex figures, a coy smirk prising at her lips. "I thought you'd already ate."

Nicky sniggers cheekily as she steals a snide glance at Lorna. "Nah, tunafish didn't do it for me."

"Aw, and here's me thinkin' ya like tunafish, hon." Lorna raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, you gotta love tunafish. But, yunno, sometimes you gotta get your hands on some sweet an' juicy big ass fuckin' melons." Nicky gapes down at Lorna's protruding cleavage and licks her lips. "God, I love your fuckin' tits-"

"'Oh, Reverend," Alex gasps out in a ridiculously thorough Southern drawl that shatters Nicky and Lorna's moment, "please, _please _cure this obscene sin against our Lord! Look, Reverend, they're _homosexuals! _Just witness it for yourself! Lord, tis' _abomination!"_

"Fuck, man." Nicky chuckles as Lorna rolls her eyes at the duo, though even she can't mask the amused smile playing on her lips. "You've got a real hetero Southern Belle thing goin', eh? Do that in our next Memphis gig. It'll make em' swoon. Now where's that lighter, huh? I've gotta make up my morning smoke."

"Here." Alex holds out a compact lighter in her palm. "_Don't_ fucking break it, Nichols."

"I won't, man. Jeez." Nicky grasps the lighter and flicks it on, the pad of her thumb pressed down tight. Leaning in, she ignites her cigarette, takes a long, soothing drag and slowly expels the thin smoke before switching off the lighter. "So what're we doin' on this fine Saturday afternoon?"

"I just wanna cuddle an' watch a movie with ya." Lorna nestles closer into Nicky's side. "I'm _so_ tired, hon. You zonked me out right out."

"Whatever you want, doll." Nicky pops the cigarette back into her mouth. "Yo, Vause, you got any dope we can cook up? I'm all out til' Luschek shifts his fat ass."

"I've, uh, gotta go out."

"Shit, man." Nicky groans, sulkily slumping in her seat. "You gotta call your dealer too? _Fuck...!__" _She grizzles, her voice heightening, and Lorna jolts away at the shock. "I-I ain't going through the day without dope! Seriously, Vause, I-I'm gonna have a fuckin' aneurysm!"

"You think _I _am?!" Alex snarls, the trigger released in all its glory. "Fuck, Nichols!"

"Can't we all just relax an' put West Side Story on, hon?" Lorna frowns. "Why've you two gotta do drugs all the damn time, huh?"

Nicky sharply turns Lorna's way, tone dampening down and growing notably raspy. "Lemme make you cum so fuckin' hard you won't walk for a goddamn _week_. Then we'll relax, doll. Gotta fulfill my needs, eh?"

"We've already gone three rounds this mornin', hon." Lorna softly strokes Nicky's cheek. "You keep goin' in there so deep it's like you're diggin' for gold. Like you're outta 'The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.'"

"Baby, your orgasms are all the fuckin' jewels I need."

"Oh, yeah?" Lorna smirks. "What kinda jewels d'ya like, hon?"

Alex rolls her eyes and springs from her seat. "And I'm _definitely _out."

Nicky draws on her cigarette again, balancing it between two fingers. "Say 'yo' to Fahri for me, man. And get some extra dope."

"As your unwitting landlord, I think we need to lay a few ground rules before I'm practically forced out of my home." Alex tightly folds her arms, adamant on asserting her stance. "One, don't even think about raiding my fridge. The food porn you two sickos are into is actually fucking disgusting. And I _really_ don't need to see your whipped cream tits again, Lorna. Once was traumatic enough."

"Oh, we ain't doin' that anymore." Lorna proclaims. "Got weird."

"Yeah," Nicky swoops in with a proud smirk, "I started drizzlin' chocolate sauce on Lorn's-"

"_Two_," Alex withholds all the rising temptation to regurgitate the lining of her stomach, "you are _not_, under any circumstances, throwing another party in my jacuzzi without asking me first. I don't need a repeat of last year's incident."

"C-C'mon, man. You're turnin' into Red. Last year was funny as fuck. Lighten up, yeah?"

Alex scoffs. "Oh, because the ten-thousand dollars _you_ paid in renovations must've been absolutely hilarious."

"Eh, it was worth it for the shits an' giggles." Nicky shrugs, leaning across to scrape her cigarette along the ashtray before reclining back in her seat.

"Three, sex is for the _bedroom. _Not in the shower. Not the sofa. Not on the stairs. And _especially _not on the breakfast bar. Believe it or not, _food _is consumed where your bare asses once lay. This is not the fucking Peninsula."

"What the fuck, man?" Nicky whines. "Bedroom sex ain't fun."

"Look, I don't give a shit what you guys do when you're at home. But when you're in _my _apartment, you've gotta start paying a bit of fucking respect."

"You a dictator now, Vause? And here's me thinkin' this was a democracy."

"Your maternal figurehead would claim otherwise."

"Hey, just cos' Red fuckin' detests the ground ya walk on don't mean-"

"And I'm gone." Alex claims up her jacket from the armrest and slides it on, comforted by the soft, supple nature of worn leather and its strong, cleansing odour. "Have fun with...whatever the fuck it is you're planning on doing."

"Hey, we're always open for a threesome, right, doll? Vause, you can suck on Lorn's titties while I-"

"No, no, _no!" _Lorna gently slaps Nicky's arm. "That is _disgustin', _Nicky!"

"I've gotta agree with Lorna here, Nichols." Alex chuckles. "That is pretty fucking twisted."

"Eh, I got more of my gorgeous Italian goddess to myself. I ain't complainin'."

"D'aww," Lorna giggles goofily, "ya think I'ma goddess, hon?"

"You're _my_ goddess, doll. And you deserve _all_ the worship in the world."

"Christ." Alex mumbles, striding towards her front door.

She bends down and picks up a fallen lone combat boot (is it hers? Or Nicky's? Lorna's? They all wear a relatively similar style) and investigates the sizing on the thick sole. Ah. An eleven. Definitely hers. She unravels the black, liquorice-like laces (of _course, _Lorna's are pink) and proceeds to search for its counterpart, but she ceases to so upon Nicky's lustful tongue taking a stance.

"Hmm, you're a fuckin' skank, doll. You know that, right? A filthy fuckin' skank. Gonna flog that ass so hard you fuckin' cum on the spot, yeah. Fifth fuckin' orgasm, you whore. Those cheeks are gonna be redder than ma's hair when I-"

"Who brings their mother into dirty talk?!" Lorna sqeuals in abhorrence. "God, Nicky, ya such a fuckin' turn off! That's _so_ gross!"

"Ha!" Alex snorts, spinning around to face the pair.

"Ain't you gone, Vause?!" Nicky forcefully flicks her middle finger. "Fuck off with the cliterference!"

"It's _my_ apartment, Nichols!" Alex gleefully reciprocates the gesture. "And I told you to get the fuck upstairs!"

"Alright, alright, we're goin'." Nicky begrudgingly propels herself up, purposefully sluggish in her movement. "C'mon, doll, do what Mrs Hitler says."

Lorna flies off the sofa and grapples Nicky's hand. "See ya later, Ally-gator!"

Alex groans. "That is not my-"

Nicky and Lorna giggle to themselves as they rush out of the room and bolt upstairs, neither allowing the other to bypass. Alex rolls her eyes at the rumbling chaos, but it's nothing she hasn't witnessed before. When Lorna expels a breathless gasp, and Nicky follows on with a filthily illicit commentary, Alex scrambles to find her other shoe among the boot pile, forces each one on her feet, retrieves her sunglasses and speeds out of her apartment. Strange_. _It's like she's the outsider looking in, the one _not_ privileged by this permanent residency, and her friends have (unbeknownst to them, of course) successfully invaded what was once her own. But then again, apologising to Piper lies strong at the forefront of her conscience, and if that means fleeing her apartment and recklessly pummeling into the hustling crowds, she's willing to accept that Nicky and Lorna have snatched the leasehold of her home.

* * *

** _1991_ **

_During her regular trip to the music department, Alex hears a strong musical number float down the desolate corridor and frowns in bewilderment; a queer occurrence. Alex stays in school for two, perhaps three hours at a time, just to rehearse, and never in that time has _ _another person been present. Shifting an eyebrow, Alex tiptoes along the corridor until she settles at her destination; the door between her dreaded reality and the fabulous fantasy of her everlasting desires._

_The piece heightens, notes played with an incredible rapidity. Alex gapes in wonder and, unable to sustain her crippling curiosity, gently nudges the door open. She peeps in, and the sight only peaks her intrigue; a girl, in the same grade as her own, whose fingers manically fly across the piano._

_Alex recognizes the girl from art club. Fairly short, but with hair so wild and a swaggering loudmouth, her stature is certainly excused. Given how new she is, Alex is stunned by her boisterousness, but she's one of those Upper West Side shits, and Alex knows all too well about them. This girl, ever the eternal clown, is the catalyst of chaos, frequently holding whole responsibility for classroom carnage. Alex shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but when said cover is crowded with excessive text, low-quality iconography and blindingly blistering colours, Alex feels every right to be subjective._

_Upon closer inspection, Alex soon registers the song as Beethoven's storming final movement in Moonlight Sonata. But while a ferocious emotion is poured into the piece, the girl appears disinterested and automated in the way her fingers routinely select notes, pressing down like a programme set before her. There's a standardized perfection, but an undeniable detachment from her performance that intrigues Alex. She's never witnessed a person _not_ play with passion. Taking herself as a prime example, music always instills something so immensely intense in her soul; something inexplicably fervent, but an invariable warmth cascading through her bloodstream, her heart and stomach alike fluttering with each sponteanous pluck of the string._

_Instead of striding away from the girl, Alex beds her pride, fills her belly with air and steps over as the final notes of the movement are thrashed. Diane frequently showers Alex with compliments, so she gathers, just as a faint possibility, that the girl's enthusiasm may swell if she does the same._

_"You're...actually amazing." Alex utters, hovering over the piano. "_ _How...how do you play like that?"_

_The girl snorts, glances up and leers contemptuously into Alex's eyes. "Constant pain and pressure from my sorry excuse of a mother."_

_"Oh." Alex replies dryly; she certainly wasn't anticipating _that_ kind of response. "How long have you been playing?"_

_"Since I was three. So that's, like..." the girl pauses, albeit brief, as she counts her fingers "...nine years worth of crappy piano lessons._ _Oh, and I'm forgettin' the five hours a day of stupid extra practice._"

_Alex frowns. __"At least your parents can __afford__ piano lessons. I had to teach myself_, _and even then there's __no way I could play like you."_

_The girl's countenance softens, and Alex gathers a strip of sympathy slicing her hard demeanour. _ _"Oh, uh...sorry, I didn't know that."_

_"It's okay. I'm used to it. Having no money and that__._.."

_Instead of tumbling into a mockery, the girl simply shrugs. "_ _I probably sound like a brat or whatever, but havin' money ain't all great. Not when that's all your parents care about."_

_"That's...really sad."_

_"It's just...whatever. They're buttfaces. I hate them."_

_"Wow." Alex scoffs. "They must be _super_ buttfaces if they give you loads of money."_

_The girl sighs, and Alex is swept with regret over her remark. _"_Great_. _I _do_ sound like a brat. I swear, I ain't like those other rich kids."_

_"It's cool. I realized. You actually act like a human being. Plus, you haven't laughed at my clothes, so that's a good sign." Alex glances at her shoes. "Everyone laughs at my clothes, so..."_

_"Hey, I'm pretty sure this dumbbutt outfit has gotta be laughed at." The girl lazily gestures to her pristine, extortionate attire. "I mean, who has to wear a _blazer_ to school?"_

_"Didn't you wear one at your...private school?"_ _Alex, of course, makes the dreaded assumption, and is silently wondering why this girl attends a grimy public school in __Brooklyn._

_"Schools." The girl shifts her eyebrows and smirks. "Got kicked out of five. My parents think I'm a 'spoiled little S-H-I-T,'" she bends her fingers to form air quotations, "and decided my education wasn't worth their stupid cash. So here I am, forever and thankfully out of private school and yet _still_ wearin' a stupid blazer."_

_"Yeah, but you look the part." Alex points to the girl's ribbon bow tie. "You're, like, a midget Tchaikovsky."_

_"Huh. And you're Bigfoot, just without all that hair."_

_"I'm not _that _tall. But in that case, I'd have to say you're __Shortfoot."_

_The girl chuckles. _ _"Jerk."_

_"So do you like it here?" Alex quizzes. "In this school?"_

_"Pfft, _no_. It's full of jerks. You're alright though."_

_"Wow, thanks a bunch." Alex rolls her eyes, though she's silently pleased another person (and _especially _a rich kid) __is on the same wavelength as her. "Means a lot."_

_"What's your name?" The girl queries, refusing to embrace any pause in their conversation._

_"Alex."_

_"Not Alexandra?"_

_"No." Alex shakes her head. "Just Alex."_

_"I'm Nicole, but I hate that, so call me Nicky._"

_Alex chortles. "Ha! Your _nick_name is Nicky!"_

_"Ha-ha." Nicky sniggers snarkily. "Funny._"

"_H__ey, Nicky, I've got a question."_

_"What?"_

_"Do you wanna play together some time?" The enquiry flows without any prior consideration, and for a scraping second Alex thinks to withdraw, because she doesn't really _know _Nicky, but she urges herself forth. "I __mean, I play guitar as well, and I thought, y'know...it'd be fun."_

_For the first time admid their encounter, Nicky breaks into a wide grin that comes as a pleasant surprise._ _"Totally!" She exclaims, nodding profusely. "I play guitar too, so I'll bring mine in."_

_"Awesome."_ _ Alex gladly returns the smile._

_Huh. __Perhaps__ music _isn't _her only friend after all._


	8. The DildoBombs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon Alex's surprising return, Piper allows her to patch things up and start afresh. Meanwhile, tensions arise between Alex and Nicky in LAX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thanking everybody's kind reviews following my previous author's notice. I truly do appreciate all your words and am very reassured to know you're quite enjoying the gradual building of their relationship. It gives me so much motivation to continue forth and tell this story as best I can. It's a long project that hasn't even kicked off (as per the story's summary), so there's so much more to come!

"I actually _love_ these."

Daya giggles, trapped in a state of awe as she admires her autographs. Somehow, some way, Piper resists the overwhelming temptation to roll her eyes; if only _she _could express the same level of adoration for _her_ autograph (now buried beneath a hefty pile of trash in her apartment). Addressing her as 'Tiny Tits.' How _fucking _dare she. Piper has never felt so much incoming revulsion flooding her senses, such a purified _rage _that crackles the ground and quakes in a tremendous tremble. No matter if she were Alex _fucking _Vause or not, _nobody _takes liberties with Piper _goddamn _Chapman. Nobody in the slightest.

It's such a consuming anger, persisting over the last day and into the dawning night, that has rendered _her_ actions completely justified.

"Look, Lorna drew a little heart by her name." Daya squeals, pointing to the illustration. "She's _so_ cute. Yunno, I drew this anime of her, but I dunno if she'd like it."

"Even if she didn't, she'd probably pretend to."

"Ugh. Lorna Morello is a bitch." Brook scoffs, proud to mark her disdain. "She's, like, a _textbook_ racist. And Nicky Nichols is the biggest fucking assface I have ever met. She was _so_ rude to me."

"What?" Daya tuts. "Tsk. She ain't no assface. Now I ain't gay or nothin', but she's kinda hot in a...rough way. And her hair looks so fluffy."

"Yeah, I ain't either, but I'd go for Alex." Flaca says, strangely satisfied by this fact. "Fuck, man. She's tall, she got those nice eyes and she's an ex-goth that fuckin' loves Indie Rock. Why can't she be a dude? She's literally my fuckin' _soulmate._"

Piper stares intuitively at her colleagues. "So...you're both adamant you're not gay, but you're fan-girling over women. That makes sense."

"Just cos' you lesbian as fuck don't mean the whole world is, Chapman."

_"Bisexual. _Not a lesbian. Why is there so much stigma surronding-"

"Why are you four fucktards hangin' around like you parta' the fuckin' Breakfast Club?" Aleida struts along with a typically bitter tone. Eyes registering the autographs, she snorts obnoxiously profound. "You ain't stopped goin' on about this stupid shit, Daya."

"Mom, you gotta stop bein' pissy and take it as a compliment." Daya whines. "She thought you was hot."

"You think I give a shit?!" Aleida challenges. "Bitch went all googoo gaga eyes over me! Just cos' she rich and famous don't mean I'm gonna jump into her panties!"

"Mom, her father's a fuckin' lawyer. Be careful."

"She ain't spoke to him for seven years. Now if you were a true fuckin' fan, and not just some creepy-ass shipper, you'd know that both Nicky and Boo disowned their parents, Alex's dad was in Death Maiden, and he was fuckin' awful, Tricia's mom kicked her out when she was, like, sixteen, and Gina-"

"Flaca, I don't give two fuckin' shits bout' all their mommy-daddy issues. If you ask me, it ain't their fault they got such shitty kids."

"You and Dayanara prove otherwise." Brook snarks.

Piper is about to scrub a shot glass when she hears three simultaneous gasps expelled into the atmosphere, and with the jab of an elbow her head shoots up and,

Oh, _shit._

"Alex...?" She splutters out. "Wha-what are you doing here...?"

Alex steps over with an unrecognisable tightness; a tension she's making so excruciatingly clear. "Can we talk, Piper?" Her alert, unnerved eyes dart to the side. "_Alone?"_

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

A million questions whizz through Piper's brain as the cogs begin to mark their gruelling grind. Alex Vause is stood before her eyes, _again, _exhibiting a blank, illegible countenance, arms submissively wrapped around her slim torso. Green orbs no longer riddled with a vacant lucidity, that predatory twinkle, they carry a hesitance, a _fear, _as though _she's_ about to be mauled by Piper. The table have turned, and now Piper is the definitely the dominant, the _creature _with such sharpened teeth, preparing to pounce on the meek, submissive Alex and pierce heinous lacerations. It's a surprising contrast to the incredible performer a mere twentysomething hours ago, but an absolutely _staggering, _breathtakingly horrifying change in a person that exuded such an arrogance, such a genuinely swaggering self-assurance that only Alex _fucking _Vause could make attractive. Whether the drugs elevate her or not, there's little point denying the difference; what could only be created and enforced by a _life-_threatening tattle, an insignificant, foolishly futile fib in that distinctly Piper Chapman fashion.

She's a liar and a bitch and _oh, _has she fucked up.

"Oh, _fuck_ no_._" Aleida swiftly soars into the scene with a slicing tongue. "You ain't back to try any creepy-ass lessie shit. Not in _my _fuckin' club."

"I'm not back to try any," Alex pauses, and Piper likes to presume she's withholding any evident amusement, _"l__essie _shit. I just...need to talk to Piper."

"I'm watchin' you, asswipe."

Piper knows Alex wants to sit at _their _spot (wait, _their _spot?) in privacy, but she finds her feet cemented to the floor. _Fuck_, she can't move. Stapled into the grumbling ground, Piper Chapman carries herself like a statue, carved in a charred granite. She's ignited the eruption and now that it's subsided, the molten rock of her temperament cooling down, Alex has obtained her lost control. _Fuck, she remembers. Oh shit, what do I do? _And then the glue is scraped away, Piper (unfortunately) reclaiming her ability to walk. Heart shuddering and thuddering, shackling against the rotten confines of her terror, Piper peels her feet away and patters to the opposite end of the bar.

She doesn't even give Alex the opportunity to speak, launching straight into a frantic, grief-stricken ramble.

"Are you sober? You look sober. Please tell me if you're sober, Alex. I can't talk to you if you're high. You're sober, right? _Please_ tell me if you're sober."

Alex shakily rakes her fingers through her hair. "Uh, sober-ish."

"Okay...?" Piper elongates her stance, effectively masking her horror through a chilling coldness. "Well what the fuck do you want?" She demands all too abrupt and aggressive for her preference, and is alarmed to figure that the seal is sheared.

"I just...came by to tell you I'm sorry."

_What?_

"O-Oh..." Piper murmurs meekly and _no, _she's not returning to that. Not again.

"For calling you Tiny Tits." Alex continues with a sigh. "And, uhm...for all the other shitty things I said. It was completely unnecessary and I'd take it all back in a heartbreat. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a sexual predator. Or a pervert. I'm just...royally fucked up."

Piper can sense the remorse radiating from Alex's soul, the absolutely undeniable _regret_ exhibited admist her being. Watershed is non-existent, Alex's eyes dimly lit in an abrasive, glacial touch, and Piper gathers she's not accustomed to showing emotion, but the tone of dissatisfaction hovers above all. Piper _knows _just how apologetic Alex is, because when she's demanded forgiveness in the near past, thrusted into a televised interview she's clearlyuncomfortable with, it's _dead. _Everything is reserved, restrained and too ravished to wholly compute. Nothingis there. A lifelessness lies in the shallow pit, and Alex's atonement is deemed insincere and arrogant. But here, without the gaggle of reporters and paparazzi and producers interrogatingher every twitch, Alex _means_ it. And Piper can't resist the gnarling itch of superiority striding down the winding path, the _unbelievable _feeling that she is finally the special, the remarkable individual that Alex Vause has prioritised.

She almost forgets her own (now unnecessary) anxiety, because Alex _evidently _can't recall all.

"Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to apologise." Piper utters, toneless in her approach, but torn into a fantastical insanity inside. "I understand how busy you are."

"I might be the coolest lesbian rock star in our shitty world, but even I have some humanity." Alex softly (falsely?) smiles.

"Hm. Modesty truly suits you."

"You know it." Alex winks, but the slight trace of a smirk soon disperses. "So...are we good?"

"I'll have to ask my lawyer." Piper states with a suave, cocky coolness she doesn't anticipate. "See, I'm quite versed in the universe of sarcasm."

Alex blinks in a dire dubiety. "What...? Sorry, I don't remember everything from before..."

A striking strip of fortune, Piper knows she's got to utilise this. Alex Vause is here, _again_, willing to stitch up the loose threads between them. Thankfully of relative sobriety (and thankfully _high _the night before), Alex can effectively communicate without _that _problem sneaking and sliding through. A striking strip of fortune, luck is Piper's bitch and it's on_ her _fucking side, always the integral support in the most irreparable of situations. So she has to keep on, and maybe, just _maybe, _she'll triumph once again.

"Never mind." Piper mumbles, true excitement refusing to burst through.

"You're definitely over it?"

_"Alex."_

"So I presume that's a yes?"

_"Alex."_

"Aw, you know my name. Yours is Piper, right? Sorry. Things are still a little fuzzy."

"No, it's Tiny Tits."

Alex chuckles wearily, regretfully. "Clever. I didn't see that one coming. But granted, not only are you a pretty face, but you certainly do have a brain. And a sharp one at that."

"How considerate of you to notice."

"It's my job to acknowledge a woman's best assets."

"Rock star by day, sexual predator by night. That would make an interesting movie. I'd watch it solely on the premise alone. And, of _course_, for the main protagonist. Now how could I disregard that?"

"And who might be portraying said protagonist?" Alex enquires with all the faux fascination she can conquer.

"Audition for the role and you might just surprise yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind."

A comforting peace comes to light, and Piper soon falls into the tranquil trap. She steals the occasional glance at Alex, soaking in the stunningly striking darkness bestowed upon her. Alex, whose beauty is unrivalled; alabaster, porcelain skin, long raven tresses framing firm cheekbones and a simpering smirk that infinitely lingers on those plump, kissable (_stop_, Piper) lips like a relentless rash. Alex, whose pathetically perfect profile is plastered across album covers and articles and screens the cosmos over, and yet somehow, some _fucking _way, by a goddamn miracle, such a featured face settles in Piper's presence. She exudes a nibbling negatively, what with her biting snark and whirling despair and that criminally evil heroin that threatens to thieve all she's accomplished, but there _is_ a brightness, a twitch of greatness, amidst her tumultuous tunnel. Making a conscious decision to atone only drags Piper in deeper, forcing her down into the depths of deception and disorder,

and she _loves _it.

"You're definitely over it, ri-"

"Alex, I swear to god." Piper says, deadpan in her form.

"Okay, okay." Alex chuckles deep, overcast with a husky fog and _fuck, _it's _so _hot. "But-"

_"Alex!"_

"Piper, _please_ let me finish." Alex insists, and Piper makes no effort to cover her deathly aggravation. "Don't make that face at me. I just wanted to ask..." she sighs, roughly raking her fingers through silky dark locks. "Did you mean it when you said those things about my songs? It's been, well...okay, it's been depressing me all fucking day and-"

"Alex, I've got bad temper." Piper flings in, _needing _to clear up this final dusting of tension. "Sometimes I'll spout a load of crap I don't even mean. But I am really, _really_ sorry that I offended you. I understand that your music is important to you, and for me to just completely degrade it must've felt like shit. And just to set the record straight, I _truly_ think that your songs are groundbreaking pieces of artistic genius."

"You do?"

"Of course, Alex." Piper insists with a smile. "You are _so _talented."

"Well we're all pretty creative people. That tends to help."

Piper takes Alex's recommencing nonchalance as a token of forgivenes and spurs on their conversation, satisfied (and quite frankly relieved) that their incident in the bathroom is displaced. "I'm not. I was always really good at learning things, but when it came to innovation and creating stuff I was like 'nope, can't do this. Absolutely not.' I attended a pottery making sorority at college, and that lasted a grand total of two sessions."

"At least you tried. I was only ever in music or art at school. That's how I became friends with Nicky and Lorna. We were known as 'The Art Freaks.'"

"You didn't happen to attend North Shore High, did you?"

"What?"

"Haven't you seen Mean Girls? One of the cliques is 'The Art Freaks.'"

"I was twenty-three and drugged up when that came out." Alex chuckles, shaking her head. "Only Lorna went to see it, but that doesn't surprise me. She loves shitty chick flicks. I'm pretty sure she dragged Nicky along as well, but I'd have to ask."

"I didn't realize how close you guys were."

"Yeah, well...they're my best friends." Alex shrugs. "We've known each other since sixth grade. Another nickname of ours was 'Alvin and the Chipmunks.'"

"You were totally Simon, weren't you?" Piper wonders, a teasing, warm grin spreading across her freezing countenance. "Mrs Glasses, the smart-ass that always corrected teachers."

"Gotta hand it to you for those observations. I'm impressed."

"So...I'm presuming you started off by signing with them, right? But not in a Chipmunk-_falsetto_, I'd hope."

"Oh, that was the highlight of our high school gigs." Alex snorts. "But yeah, I guess we're the core trio of The Pussy Destroyers. It _did_ start with us."

"Well then I'm grateful for your friendship."

"Thank eleven year old me for having the fucking cahonas to interrupt Nicky's two hundred dollar per hour piano class. The band probably wouldn't exist if it wasn't for us becoming friends that day."

"I _knew_ there was a reason why you were the fan favourite."

"Ssh, don't say that to the others." Alex winks. "It pisses them off."

"I've noticed their body language on stage." Piper figures, mind casting back to the concert.

_"Everyone_ has, but it's not, like, drastic or anything. We get along well. And that's important. If you start falling-out with your bandmates, things go a bit fucking haywire."

"Aren't you constantly in each other's pockets? Familiarity breeds contempt, you know."

"I'm aware of that, Piper."

"Just checking."

"We _are_ together a lot, but..." Alex adjusts her glasses. "We make it work. We always do."

"Well I'm glad to hear that. I'm expecting _many _upcoming albums if you're all collaborating so well."

"I'll be sure to churn them out on a mass production line just to suit your demands."

"How considerable of you, Miss Vause."

"Always, Miss Chapman. Always."

Alex is, much to Piper's pleasant surprise, _incredibly _charming. No longer aloof from her own stability, she's able to sustain a fascinatingly compelling conversation that Piper thoroughly enjoys. The hypnotism of her on-stage persona sweeps through and clasps Piper's every single spec of awareness, taking on such a whimsical hold that only Alex Vause can create. Piper comes to wish _this _was the Alex she'd first encountered instead of the dazed, drugged, detached Alex that destroys everything and anything half-decent; the Alex personally responsible for brutally murdering such a sarcastic, smug and satisfyingly _sexy _woman.

"If I may ask," Alex begins, reclaiming Piper's attention once more, "how long have you been a fan?"

"I've been a Vauseinator for a few years now."

"But you came to _our_ concert."

"Sorry, I'm confused. What do you mean?"

"We call our fans The DildoBombs." Alex informs, sipping her beer. "If you're a DildoBomb, you're a fan of the band itself. If you're a Vauseinator, and yeah, I _know _this sounds arrogant, so don't kill me in my sleep, the chances are you show up to watch me. To quote my crazy-haired companion," Alex clears her throat before drawling out a deep, accentuated New York dialect, 'it ain't arrogant, it's fuckin' fact.'"

Piper raises an eyebrow at the hysterically horrible impersonation. "Now let me guess, Nicky or Boo came up with The DildoBombs, didn't they? Or was it _both _of them that concocted such innuendo?"

"Actually no." Alex chuckles. "It was Gina. She's a stealthy little sexual mouse. Anyway, _my_ fans are the Vauseinators. Lorna has the Morello Marshmallows-"

Piper snorts in disbelief. "Bullshit. No _fucking_ way does she call her fanbase that."

"Oh, but she does. It's her favourite candy. And Nicky's is the Bean-Flicker Worshippers. Do _not _ask why, because I think that's pretty self-explanatory."

"I wasn't planning on it." Piper states, "But I don't understand the purpose of all these terms. Do they exist solely to feed your egos?"

"Wow." Alex emits a short, abrupt chuckle. "You really don't fuck around."

"Sorry." Piper says flatly. "Apparently I have a tendency to blurt things out."

"I realised." Alex smiles coy and calm. "It's fine."

"...are _you_-"

"Yeah, I'm over it, Piper." Alex teasingly rolls her eyes. "As you said, my songs are 'groundbreaking pieces of artistic genius.' Now that's something I certainly wouldn't appreciate."

"They are just fascinating. Not a lot of people can fathom such raw talent, but I, for one, fully understand your creative concepts. I suppose you _do _need to have some intelligence if you're a...DildoBomb."

"What about 'It Sounded Nicer in My Head?' Nobody understands that one. Even I don't, and I wrote it."

"Try me." Piper grins; she's always willing to embrace an insect of an intent, a minuscule goal of one sort or another, and that's _especially _when Alex Vause is proposing such. After all, petulance is Piper's playground. "I'll deduce 'It Sounded Nicer in My Head' by the time this weekend's up."

"To do that I'd need to pay you another visit. Am I right?"

Piper's heart flutters, skipping more than one beat. "If you're willing to make the commute." Her words are uttered with a faux confidence, and she silently prays Alex doesn't notice; she'd rather not contribute to Alex's expansive (yet sexy) ego.

"As long as you're at the other end, I'd gladly ride the 'A' line from Rockway in Queens to northern Manhattan."

Piper snorts in disbelief. "You would not ride the fucking Subway for five _minutes_ let alone fifteen hours."

"You'd be surprised. I associate with many professional New Yorkers. Plus, my mom's janky car jacked up when I was twelve, and we couldn't afford jack shit, so I spent half my teen years on the Subway."

"Eugh." Piper pictures an internal image of the rundown, underground carnage and a variety of repellent oddities lazing around in the carriages. "The Subway is full of the trashiest trash to ever grace the human race. I would never _dream_ of using it."

"Wow." Alex deadpans, retaining her usual neutral exterior.

A pinch of routine regret prods against Piper's nerves. "What...?"

"You sound just as obnoxious as Nicky's mom."

"It's not obnoxious. It's a valid observation. The Subway is disgusting."

"It's not exactly my preferred method of transport either, but that's more to do with the whole _famous_ thing."

"Well that's fair."

Before Alex can respond, a blasting song explodes into the air, and Piper instantly recalls the pounding tune; only _Alex _could have 'Lesbian Request Denied' set as her ringtone. Alex groans aloud and-_wait_, is she _annoyed _that their conversation was halted? Piper can't be certain. She watches Alex force out her phone and gape at the blinking screen with an unspeakably strange rage.

"I'm sorry, Piper, I've gotta take this." Alex grumbles. "It's Lorna."

"No, no, it's fine. Don't apologise, Alex."

Alex rapidly picks up the call. "What, Lorna...? What do you _mean _you fucked up the box-spring...?! Jesus fucking Christ, you _sunk _in the bed...?! I actually can't leave you two alone...! And Nicky set off the fire alarms...?! Doing what?! No, wait, don't even fucking tell me! This is the last fucking time you hog my apartment for your make-up sex...! Yes, I _am_ taking back what's mine! You _both _have homes! _Nice _homes! Jesus, fuck!" Alex rapidly pulls her phone away from her ear and jabs at the screen.

"What the fuck was that about?"

_"Don't_ even ask." Alex spits, and Piper jolts at the sudden charge of fury. Exhaling, her next words cool down. "I'm really sorry, Piper. I've gotta go. I would've stayed longer, but Nicky and Lorna practically need a fucking babysitter. Like I haven't got _enough _on my plate..."

"It's okay, Alex." Piper reassures, withholding from the unbearable pang of envy stabbing her senses; Alex's _famous_ friends

"Piper...just to clarify before I go...you're still not pissed at me, right?"

"How many times, Alex?" Piper exhales in exasperation. "I'm not pissed. Okay, so you were on drugs, which was...a bit terrifying, but-" she arrives at a halt when Alex pulls a foolish pout. "No, _don't_ make that stupid face. I'm fully entitled to express my dismay towards that shit."

"I'm...working through it."

"Well you really should." Piper states bluntly. "Drugs are terrible for you."

"Telling me what to do already, are we?"

"Growing defensive over a genuine _concern _of mine, are we?"

Alex smirks. "Concerning yourself with _my _business, are we? Are you my secret stalker?"

"Please. Like you've ever been stalked."

"The Lolly Whitehill situation?" Alex raises an eyebrow and oh _fuck_, every single nerve in Piper's body prickles with an excitement she can't contain. "You know, the story that had _international _coverage?"

"Oh." Piper states, defeat inflating. Even _not_ succeeding in their insignificant debate feels like an exhaustive loss. "I forgot about that."

"Nice of you to ask if it still affects me."

_"So__rry_." This time, Piper embraces a lengthy eye roll. "Okay, does it continue to affect you even at this very millisecond?"

"No, Piper, I don't give a fuck!" Alex bellows into an uncontrollable mass of laughter.

Piper scoffs. "You're an ass."

"Aw, you discovered my spirit animal."

"Fuck off, you fucking bitch."

"Yet another spirit animal of mine."

"_Ugh!"_

"Piper, as adorable as your frustration towards my comebacks is, I've seriously gotta go." Alex chuckles, picking up her jacket. "Nicky and Lorna will end up burning down the entire building with their fucking wax play if I don't shift my ass."

Piper frowns, a mild intrigue plaguing (and dirtying) her thoughts. "Lorna doesn't, you know...seem the _type_ that would indulge in that sort of thing."

Alex snorts. "Believe me, she is."

"I'll take you up on that challenge, by the way."

"I was-"

"You were being sarcastic, I know. But once you face Piper Chapman with a challenge, she will _not _back down. I guarantee, by Thursday I'll have a full disquisition on the connotations of 'It Sounded Nicer in My Head.'" Which she will. Of _course _she will.

"Beautiful _and_ highly intelligent. You're certainly something else, Piper Chapman."

Piper smiles. This time, there's an absence of malice, nothing patronising about Alex's quip; she _means_ it, and Piper fucking _loves_ it. "You're not too shabby yourself, Alex Vause."

"I'd stay and chat all night, because I'd rather _not _be cleaning up the stink my friends have detonated, but I'll definitely be back to read that disquisition. I'm actually quite interested to unveil your perspective."

"I'll get to work on it. You'll be here for Thursday, right?"

"I should be." Alex shifts off her seat. "I'm in LA for a couple of days, so we'll see. If I'm not back, I'll come in next Sunday. That's, like, my only free day."

"But that's a whole week from now."

"Well that's the life of a rock star for you. Busy, busy."

"Hmm." Piper hums as though she understands. "Oh, and Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. I really enjoyed talking to you."

"No, Piper. Thank _you _for giving me a taste of fucking sanity in my crazy life."

"Oh, I'm _definitely _not the epitomization of 'sanity,' but that's kind of you to acknowledge. Now you better come by on Friday, Vause. Prepare to be amazed."

"What a high opinion of yourself." Alex arches an attractive eyebrow that sends Piper spinning on a tailwind. "Well, we'll have to see on Friday, won't we?"

"That we will."

* * *

Guitar case strapped to her back (she can't possibly part with her beloved blue beauty), Alex Vause saunters away from the demanding, desperate photographers. They circulate the airport like moths to a blinding flame, relentless in their parasitic pursuit. Alex's eyes, strategically shielded by her sunglasses, dart across the vicinity until she settles on Nicky, Boo and Tricia congregating beside the exit, with Nicky (unsurprisingly) clutching a dormant cigarette between nimble fingers. Alex exhales, internally prepping herself for the oncoming days; hours riddled with an invariable exhaustion, tiresome contractual declarations, and snorting one life after another, almost as if the drugs queue for consumption. She strides towards the trio, link chains on cargo pants clanging against her thighs, and squeezes into the space between Boo and Tricia.

Nicky delivers a curt nod, wide eyes leering over aviator shades. "Hey, Vause. How'd ya flight go?"

"We were on the same flight, Nichols."

Nicky sniffles, thrusting back her sunglasses. "Yeah, uh, true, man. Fuck, you seen Lorna? We had a bit of a squabble back at JFK and she fuckin' moved halfway across first class. I wanted to hold her hand durin' takeoff. She hates flying."

"And _tha__t, _ladies and gentlewomen, is the surprise of the decade." Boo chuckles sardionically.

_Jesus._

Alex sighs in discontent. "Okay, what happened this time?"

"So, here's the thing. Lorna thinks spaghetti bolognese was invented in Italy, cos' yunno, she's patriotic and shit, but the Brits kicked it off. Hundred fuckin' percent. She gets pissy, I call her a bozo, and then she's off like a homo on a hetero blind date."

"You had...a fight...over _bolognese?__" _Boo questions, her chortles poorly restrained. "This is fucking brilliant. Honestly, this is better than the time Lorna thought Chinese food was invented in America."

"Quit insultin' her intelligence, man." Nicky grouches. She slides a hand into her pocket, tugs out a stick of gum and proceeds to unwrap it. "She's a sharp cookie."

"You're telling _m__e _to stop?" Boo challenges, eyebrow rising. "Nichols, you've called her _every _synonym under the umbrella of 'stupid.' How do your conversations even work? Poor woman's got the IQ of a goldfish."

Nicky scoffs, shakes her head, quickly gathering the ammunition. "What the-"

"Okay, let's just..._not _draw attention to ourselves." Alex swoops in with a tinkling of hesitance. "The paps are already having a fucking field day. I bet a million dollars they'll yabber on about your Gucci sweatpants, Nichols." She snidely eyes Nicky's deluxe, diamond-patterned gear.

"Hey, fuck you, Vause." Nicky gears up her defense, tossing the gum into her mouth. "These sweats are comfy. Plus Carlin thinks _she's_ the Gucci Queen, so-"

Alex scoffs, making minimal effort to conceal her bubbling exasperation. "Oh my god, you and your stupid fucking rivalry with Stella Carlin. It's so annoying. Can't you call a truce?"

Nicky laughs loud and forceful, chomping on the gum. "Hey, you don't like her either, man!"

"Yeah, but I'm not parading around LAX screaming 'I'm dripping in cash, please mug me' just to win a few brownie points."

"Alright, so we'll go outside." Nicky grins, plodding towards the exit. "That'll get you climaxin', eh? You need a good orgasm, Vause. When you're fuckin' a girl next use _ki__nbaku. _Japanese bondage. Great stimulant."

Alex glares razor-sharp daggers at Nicky through her tinted shades. She can't quite understand her skyrocketing resentment, but the inkling is invariably there, ominously settling on her wrangling thoughts. Each itching stroke reignites the match, from Nicky's languid, parading gait to her putrid babbling, her smugness transpiraling from comedic to abhorrent. Alex envisages herself launching forth like a javelin and hand delivering a punch to Nicky's cocky countenance, but she'd never act on that. Not again. And _e__specially_ not in a fucking airport. She's older (questionably wiser), and she's got an adverse reputation to stabilise. Plus, she _knows _Nicky is, quite frankly, just as fucked in the head, the wiring of their minds cut short and tangled into dangerous knots; her actions conceal that underlying trauma. Harming Nicky would provide a short-term satisfaction to her being, but a cataclysmic change in the ultimate (Red instantly comes to mind, and that _petrifies_ her). It's a ridiculous risk hardly worth taking,

because they're both withdrawing.

Instead, Alex strolls along the simplest route and emits a surly grunt. "Fuck off, Nicky." She growls, the temperature hitting boiling point. "Seriously, fuck off."

"See?" Nicky spins around with a smirk that pulverises Alex's declining patience. "You need to get laid. I got a girl in Downtown LA. Beautiful big bazookas, renowned for her phantom toothbrush dildos-"

"Okay, this 'phantom toothbrush' slut sounds _really _appealing, but I don't need to get fucking laid!" Alex exclaims, grasping the interest of several onlookers, and a shooting nerve tackles her to the ground. She gulps, hesitant, before toning down her volume. "Why is _everything_ about sex with you?"

Alex subconsciously recalls the marathon of disasters imploding in her face, paying particular homage to yesterday's fiasco. Having to stunt her satisfactory conversation with Piper, Alex's frustration continues to loom. She relishes in their communication, somewhat staggered by Piper's cruising confidence (and _loving _it all the same) and certainly befuddled by her will to unwrap the animosity. But then, she _is _Alex Vause, and Piper Chapman is a Vauseinator. For Piper, tearing off the paper would be like receiving a most priceless gift. And yet, she's not quitea Vauseinator, not exhibiting the die-hard, obsessive antics of the rest of the force. Initially unnerved, yes, but then rightfully reclaiming her lost voice. And _boy, _is it a beautiful, melodious voice Alex craves to hear again and again and _again_. Piper isn't in sync with the squadron, but instead of casting her out, Alex is only fascinated to embrace her peculiarity and draft her in.

Does Alex like her? Fuck yes.

For Nicky and Lorna to prohibit any further action (first base, perhaps?) sees the absolute explosion of frantic fury. Their voluptuous volatility, their depth of poisonous devotion, isn't Alex's truly concern. Alex deserves her _own _companion; albeit a friend (maybe?), she'd like to believe Piper _considers _divulging further in, willing to unleash that terribly suppressed attraction in all its glory. She doesn't know what Piper is to her, because her existence has been noted for less than forty-eight hours, but she's _something. _A person she'd _love_ to fuck, sure, but also a person that preys upon her darkened mind, invading her murky storm like a shooting bolt of lightening. But then, _not _a person she'd ever enter the confines of a relationship with. _No._ Not in the slightest. She's got a good thing going with heroin.

Whatever Piper Chapman is to Alex, she yearns to remain in her company, to revel in that sight. She finds herself fighting off the odd urge to jump back on the plane and return to New York and demand Piper complete her disquisition on 'It Sounded Nicer in My Head,' because she'd rather be there than here, in Los Angeles, admist all the grotesque glamour and the heinous hedonism and _arguing _with Nicky in the fucking airport over her selfishly stunting any continuous confab with Piper.

Nicky smacks on the gum for a passing moment, furthering the fuel for Alex's clambering wrath. "You were a fuckin' nympho at the club."

_"I'm _a nympho?" Alex sneers, subtly shaking her head. "Jesus fuck, you are unreal. If you were a man you'd be labelled as a sexual predator."

"What, cos' I'm a tit king?" Nicky proudly chuckles. "I'm not allowed to take thorough inspection on our species' tig ol' bitties?"

"Not when they're fucking straight, Nicky. _Sheriff_ Fischer? Remember her?"

Nicky's lopsided, shit-eating grin starts to slope down, and Alex knows full well she's triumphed in the challenge. "Aw, c'mon, Vause...don't bring that shit up in the airport, yeah? C'mon, that ain't fair. What's your problem, huh?"

"_You_._"_

"What, cos' I brought up the _kinbaku?__" _Nicky scoffs, chomping and chewing incessantly. "Cos' I wanna wear designer shit to piss Carlin off? What the fuck?"

_That's fucking it._

Alex commences the ultimatum, firing the scathing bullet, temper lashing against the optimum peak, and fully embraces her rapidly ascending tone.

"Because you and Lorna broke my bed, somehow set off the fire alarms in the _whole_ apartment block and I didn't even get a fucking apology for it! I was busy, Nicky! My life does _not_ revolve around you! And the fact that you didn't even realise _why _I've been pissed just says it all!"

Nicky patches together a hesitant smile, and _that's_ strange, because if there's one thing Nicky Nichols is not, it's false. "H-Hey, uh, it was an accident, Alex. We were just-"

"What?!" Alex seethes, frantically flinging a free arm in every conceivable direction. "You were _what?! _Taking out your constant 'Ten Things I Hate About You' bullshit by beating the shit out of her?! Yeah, because that's fucking normal, Nicky! Sort your relationship out!"

"Fuck off, Vause!" Nicky exclaims, all synthetic concoctions unsurprisingly dissipating. "Lorna fuckin' _loves _it! She cums so fuckin' hard it's like she's a goddamn hose pipe!"

"Stop talking about _cum_ in public!"

"Fuck, Vause, just, uh, lemme have a fuckin' fag, alright?!" Nicky raises the bare cigarette before spinning around, hefty mane flowing, and storming outside.

"You left your fucking bags, Nichols!" Alex gestures to the abandoned, toppling cases. "Am I responsible for your _luggage _too?! God, you're such a kid!"

"Yo, Boo, I'm confused..." Tricia murmurs in a whirling perplexity. "Why're Vause an' Nichols fightin'?"

Boo rolls her eyes. "When are you _not _confused, Miller?"

"What...?" Tricia looks to Alex, steely blue orbs glazing with confusion. "Vause, why you fightin' with Nichols?"

"We're not fighting." Alex spits with all the restrained harshness she can display.

"Sure, and I'm just a plain, good ol' heteronormative girl." Boo quips with a snarky bite. "Nothing queer about me, gentlemen. Vagina is my absolute arch-nemises."

Alex's protected eyes squeeze in immense frustration. "I fucking get it, Boo."

Alex can't escape the rapidly raging chase in her blank brain. It's Nicky and Lorna's fault. All their fucking fault. She _needs _to see Piper, needs to utilise what communication commences. And for Nicky and Lorna (per the _fucking _norm) to intrude Alex's territory only facilitates the bolstering flame. Them and their decade-old antics that Alex stands at the receiving end of, always bound tight to their insufferable insanity. The drugs and the fame and the fortune and _fucking _Reznikov and _th__eir _bullshit, all swirled together in a cocktail of calamity; a beverage Alex is constantly forced to indulge in, daily, monthly, _yearly _gulping down such heinous hydration.

Seeing Piper ceases that. She doesn't know how, nor why, but somehow it does. Erased from the dingy cage inside, when she's _talking _to Piper it feels like she's free; temporarily released from those grimy bars and into a soothing tranquillity. Not only a fetching face, Piper is the only tinkling of stability in Alex's sporadic life. There's a normality. A conscience. But she's _far _from dreadfully dull. An insightful, assertive, _attractive _young woman (with a sprinkling of surprisingly sheltered superiority), Piper has defied the odds by latching onto Alex's supple, liquid mind. Maybe it seems pathetic, because she's only known this woman for what, a day? Two? And yet Piper is, somehow, some _fucking _way, the bait at the end of the hook, the alluring lure that Alex has quickly grown utterly entranced with.

_Fuck. _Alex silently gulps down the lump in her throat at the override of swamping realisation.

It's not just about sex, is it?

"Ain't we gotta hitch a ride to the hotel soon?" Tricia wonders, and Alex is pushed and prodded out of her trance and back into the ruthless unreality of her eminence.

"Yeah." Alex mumbles, and without wholly assessing her action she swiftly strides ahead, unwilling to engage in any further nonsensical conversations with her bandmates.

* * *

Sunglasses pushed up like a headband, Alex gazes up at the painted heavens above; furious bursts of red and harsh, electronic yellows are like acrylic colours scraped across the sky. Only a damp hue of blue persists, the softening watercolours creeping through. Alex envisages herself battling with the brushes, absolutely determined to complete the piece. Cheeks decorated with brightness, she's _laughing _(probably by force)and whizzing about, scrambling to steal all the paint possible. And then Alex realises she's in the art room, with Nicky to one side and Lorna to her other, and they're harmonising in perfect unison (to an ABBA song, Alex figures) and _f__uck,_

they're teenagers.

Alex tears her eyes away and returns to her grey, dimmed surroundings, thoughts fading in her hazy mind. The strong, stale stench of smoke selfishly intrudes her nostrils, and Alex stares to her side, back ahead at the pick-up point, and then returning to the side. Nicky plumes out the smoke like a chimney, darting it upwards and onwards. Alex can't fathom Nicky's interestin smoking; to her, only drugs provide a glorious, tantalizing burst of the lethargic, mind-numbing sensation Alex is eternally craving. Smoking blackens the lungs (_and _the soul), and Alex has noticed the transformation in Nicky's voice, spoken and sung alike.

But it's not _just _that transformation, no. There's been plentiful change, and Alex doesn't know whether its been for better or for worse. Far from the imaginative, innovational students who yearned for a world of grotesque fame and fortune, now that it's here, that their tongues are graced with the fullest, richest taste of utterly enviable success, Alex realises that it _has _got to their heads. Her treatment of Piper (the first time around, anyhow), and now her brawl with Nicky spells it out perfectly.

_"What?"_

Nicky says stoically, robotically, _frighteningly _absent of all warmth, as she glares at Alex, shades disgusting what emotion might persist.

Alex exhales. "Nothing."

"Cool."

Hesitant, awkward seconds feel like eons when two spacious taxis pull into the pick-up point, and Alex feels instantly relieved at the shattering of twinging tension. Moments later Lorna and Gina arrive with a porter by their side, preoccupied with wheeling the luggage cart in his grip. The drivers jump out of the vehicles and begin heaving the suitcases along.

"Phew." Lorna exhales, thrusting down a stout piece of hand luggage. "That's a lotta' cases. Thanks for helpin', hon."

The porter nods, stabilising the cart. "Any time, Miss Morello." He turns around and strolls through entrance.

"Now are you four goons gonna get off ya fuckin' asses and help me an' Gina?" Though Lorna addresses everyone collectively, her sunglass-shielded eyes gape at Nicky. "We're only small, yunno. Ain't fair that us an' the drivers gotta do all the loadin'."

"What about your man-slave, babe?" Nicky casually asserts, exhaling a hefty stream of smoke. "Thought you were dodgin' the todge. Mind ya, you're a ragin' bisexual, but you're so deep in the iron closet that-"

"Please, _please_ shut the fuck up, Nicky." Gina grumbles, shooting a slanted glare Nicky's way. "You're. So. _Irritating."_

"Aw, love you too, Gina."

"Can someone help?" Lorna groans, straining to shift a case. "I'm gonna break my fuckin' back here. Nicky, stop bein' a lazy ass and lift your bags. C'mon, put the butt out and help ya fuckin' girlfriend."

Nicky begrudingly casts her burning cigarette to the floor, stomps on it with unnecessary pressure and trudges over to Lorna. "Anythin' ya say, kid."

_"Whipped." _Boo teases, and Nicky's wide eyes glare above falling sunglasses.

"Put it in the trash, Nicole." Lorna demands, pointing to the desolate, deceased cigarette with her free hand. "Look, there's a can there. Why'd ya think polar bears ain't happy anymore, huh?"

Nicky laughs with an ounce of snark. "Doll, you're riot. I ain't solely responsible for climate change."

"Put. It. In. The. Trash."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, okay." Nicky sniggers, obediently bending down and retrieving the cigarette. Forcing herself up, she logs over to the disposal and casts it alongside other burned, battered cigarettes at the top.

Alex watches Nicky trudge over to the baggage cart and strain to shift it off. In that moment Alex figures just how weak and decrepit their bodies are, what with all the poisonous power pumped inside and the half-an-hour a day of exercise they've never had the time for (how _Lorna_ does is an engima). Only sex is the true quench to their thirsting stamina. It frightens Alex, albeit briefly, that there's a constant ruin she's carrying around. And Nicky's struggle to lift an average-sized suitcase only exacerbates Alex's emerging concern; she's making a complete mountain out of a molehill, and nobody appears to notice. Not an unusual occurrence, but tragic nonetheless.

Irregardless, Alex is still irked to no avail, so she's not intending to help.

"Fuck, man..." Nicky whines, respiring ragged, the case hardly having moved an inch. "Why couldn't the...fuckin' porter...do this shit? Lorna...did you forget to tip him?"

"I ain't gotta tip_ everyone, _yunno."

Boo scoffs, unable to suppress her sardonic amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but this is the United States of Gratuity."

"Yeah, it's kinda mandatory, Lorna." Alex continues. "He expected one."

"Eh." Lorna shrugs, and Alex internally chuckles at such obscene obliviousness.

Reclaiming her breath, Nicky inspects the suitcase. "What is that, Louis fuckin' Vuitton? Why'd ya use such an expensive case? It could've got fuckin' ransacked by the baggage handlers."

"Why'd _you _buy such expensive sweats, Nic?" Lorna retorts, tugging Nicky's sleeve. "You're just wearin' em' in the airport."

"You're just puttin' a buncha clothes in ya case, Lorn." Nicky attempts to comb her fingers through the frizzled mop. "Fuckin' Christ, we're enterin' a postmodernist world dictated by capitalist acquisition. Huh. And here's me conformin' to it."

Lorna stares vacant and befuddled. "How are you so smart...?"

"Boarding school in your elementary years works wonders, kid."

"Oh, and you're sayin' ya better than me, huh, Nicky?" Lorna growls, frown eteching. "You still think I'm a _bozo__?"_

"Hey, I didn't mean that, doll. You just kept arguin' with me when you know I'm right."

"I still say bolognese is _Italian."_

"You say tomato, I say tomahto."

"But you ain't British, hon. You don't say that."

Nicky exhales. "Jesus, it's a figure of speech, Lorna."

"Oh..."

"Hey, do you want some more help, Lorn?" Alex asks, grappling a piece of hand luggage. "Considering, you know, Boo and Tricia have _clearly_ lost all capability in their arms." She glances at

"Oh, you wound me, Vause."

"Sorry, just...feelin' tired."

Lorna nods. "Thanks, Al. Yeah, I packed a lotta' stuff. Gotta be prepared for all things, yunno? Sun, snow-"

_"Snow?" _Alex's eyebrow rises by slight. "It's LA. Now if you were talking about New York, I'd have to agree with you."

"Ya never know." Lorna wags a finger. "I got a big warm fluffy coat in there."

Alex lifts the case off the baggage cart, muscles screaming in vain, and languidly steadies it straight. "But for _LA?"_

"Yunno I didn't go away much as a kid, so we liked makin' it an adventure. Packin' all sorts was fun."

Nicky snickers. "Yeah, but you ain't a fuckin' kid now, and you got a shit ton of cash, so why the stupid baby ritual?"

"Would you fuckin' help me, assclown? How many times I gotta ask, huh?"

"I love it when you call me names, doll." Nicky grins, reclaiming a handbag. "It's _so_ hot."

"And this just got gross." Gina cringes.

"You sure we ain't talkin' about ya face, Gina?"

"Fuck you, Nichols!"

"Can we _not_ tear each other's hair out in the fucking pick-up point?" Alex groans, anticipating the paparazzi's lurking presence to unveil itself from underground. "Christ."

"You still pissed at me, Vause?" Nicky glances around with a snide smirk as she hurls the handbag into the trunk.

"Fuck you."

"Hey, why you pissed at Nic, Al?" Lorna pouts, jutting out her bare lower lip.

"I'm _not _pissed, Lorna." Alex grumbles, glaring at a grinning Nicky. "Your girlfriend just has a fucking big mouth. That's all."

Lorna lowers her voice, ensuring only Alex can detect it. "Nic's like the weird yellow zippy thing in that British seventies show. Won't shut the fuck up unless ya clamp her mouth down. Like ya zippin' it together."

"'Rainbow.'"

"No, the one with the big bear, an' the gay pink hippo, and all the colours of the-"

"Lorna, it's 'Rainbow.'" Alex can't help a chuckle escape. "That's the name of the show."

"Why would ya name a show 'Rainbow'?" That's a silly name."

"For the same reason you'd feature a _gay_ hippo as a main character and two dudes called _Rod_ and _Roger."_

"_Ohhh. _That's smart. Wait, I don' get the Roger thing."

"Roger. Rhyming with 'todger.' It's British innuendo. Nicky literally said it before."

"Well how am I gonna know that, Al?"

"I thought you liked London."

"She likes it for the shopping, man." Nicky jumps in. "Harrods an' that. Fortnum and Mason. Most boring shit I've ever endured. You really think _Lorna's_ interested in culture?"

"You are _so _rude to me!" Lorna hisses. "I happen to love Broadway!"

"What?" Nicky scoffs, leaning against the sleek vehicle. "Tsk, it's called the West End."

"No, it's Broadway!"

"West End."

"Broadway, Broadway, Broadway!"

"Lorna, I'm fuckin' tellin' you it's the West End. Broadway's in New York."

_"No, _Broadway is in London _and_ New York!"

"You two are always fightin' like a married couple." Tricia wheels a suitcase into the driver's grip. "It's funny. When you gonna propose, Nichols?"

"Same-sex marriage ain't legal, Miller." Nicky huffs as she hoists up a bulking backpack and tosses it beside the other cases. "We got fuckin' civil partnerships. _Great_ alternative, America. Nice to see they're really considerin' us."

Alex snorts. "And even if it was, _your_ marriage would be a train wreck _and_ a plane crash all in one."

"Whoa." Boo chuckles. "Vause is throwing that shade like a fucking pitcher. Converting from softball to baseball, are we?"

"Fuck off." Alex sulkily retorts. "I just think that marriage is a terrible idea. It restricts you to one person for the rest of your life. That's horrible. I couldn't think of anything worse. So, yeah, maybe I'm actually glad we don't have same-sex marriage. It's such fabricated bullshit."

"Al, when you find ya soulmate you'll be thinkin' different." Lorna figures, giggling at Nicky.

_Fucking Christ._

"Marriage is _especially _a terrible idea if it involves you two." Alex fires with all her dripping satire. "You'll be getting more divorces than Henry the Eighth. Beheading might even come into it since you're constantly at each other's throats."

"It's called 'passion,' Vause." Nicky flings a possessive arm across Lorna's shoulders. "You ain't gonna know 'bout that with all the sleepin' around you do."

_"No_, it's called fucking abu-never mind." Alex speedily stops herself short, not usually one to allow her mouth to run. "Forget it. Let's just...load the rest of these cases."

As the remaining luggage is piled up in the trunks, Alex allows her tragic mind to wander. She peers at Nicky and Lorna, who share periodic pecks with each other. _They'll __be crying over each other soon, _Alex figures in a surge of spite. _It won't last. _Completely cast in their own bubble, Alex knows she's secondary in their lives. She'll never take sides in their biweekly battles, the woeful wars between the wit and the wooden-head, but _they'll_ take each other's. And she's been contending with it for too fucking long. It's _their _fucking fault, their stupid, stupid post-war sex, that Alex couldn't complete something that, for once, she was actually_ enjoying. _Whilst _sober. _She'd never experienced such a natural enthrallment, such true euphoric bliss, in what's surely an eternity. They'd obliterated her happiness, grabbed it with greedy hands and shredded in into a hundred thousand pieces. _Fuck them and their fucking pathetic excuse of a fucking__ relationship, _Alex scoffs aloud.

Wait. That's _it. _Piper makes Alex..._happy. __That's_ the something, the special, unique quality that only such an incredible individual could induce. The something that Alex just couldn't tap into for the life of her, but now it's there, clear, illustrated in crisp black and white, the colours of distraction absorbed into crawling shadows.

Alex barely knows this woman, but she's already got such a hold on her beaten brain.

"Hey, uh," Tricia murmurs, "we headin' to the hotel, right?"

"Oh, we'll catch up." Lorna says. "Me and Nic are checkin' out this apartment in the Hills. Oh, the pictures were _so_ dreamy. Palm trees, the swimmin' pools, that sun tannin' sunshine. I'd live here all the time if someone wasn't so cuckoo bout' Manhattan." She prods and pokes Nicky's arm.

"C'mon, cut that out, doll." Nicky bats Lorna's finger away. "And hey, uh, if ya dump me again, there's nobody holdin' ya back. Spread your pretty lil' wings and flock to La-La Land, cos' I ain't leavin' my city."

"You don't own New York." Lorna insists. "And yunno it's my city too. But I really wanna live in LA. I love it here _so_ much. Please, hon. Would ya think about it?"

"Lorna, I don't wanna live here-"

_"Please? _Oh, Nic, I'll do anythin' ya want if you move to LA with me."

_"Kinbaku?"_

"What?! No, no! Anythin' but that weird Asian kinky shit!"

"Alright, alright...if we _were_ to move here," Nicky fails to stifle a cheeky chortle, "you've gotta walk around butt naked in our apartment for a whole year."

"I have fuckin' standards, Nicky."

"A woman can dream, eh?"

"You two have no fucking shame." Gina growls. "You're, like, the _definition_ of gross."

"Yeah, you are gross." Alex states, dry and deadpan in her manner. "I'm often a firsthand fucking witness. You know, I could write a novel called 'Alex Vause and Her Nicorello-Induced PTSD.' I think it'd be an insant New York Times classic."

"Hey, look, I'm sorry about yesterday, alright, Vause?" Nicky exhales in defeat. "We got _really _fuckin' into that-"

Alex shakes her head. "Nicky, it's fine. Forget it."

It's obviously not, because Alex's lie is more blatant than Boo's sexuality and Nicky is staring straight through her, arms folded with a solid stance that screams _quit fuckin' bullshittin' me, Vause. You're still pissed. _How queer. Alex is normally such a masterful tactician, swerving around any truth she's required to tell; dishonesty is an achievement she's become quite skilled at, twisting and manipulating a malleable reality to her desired will. As does heroin. If she's honest with herself (which she isn't), Alex just isn't a fan of actuality. It's awful.

But Piper's real, is she not?

_Yes, you dumbass, of course she's fucking real._

Lorna frowns. "Wait, hon, is this about-" Nicky takes a second to murmur in Lorna's ear. "Oh. Alright. We'll see ya later, guys." Her infinitely delightful, perfectly picturesque smile returns, albeit absent of her usual lipstick.

"C'mon!" Nicky swiftly strikes Lorna's behind. "Get your ass in there, beautiful!"

"Nicky, you asshole!" Lorna shrieks with laughter.

"Shit, kid." Nicky smirks, hungrily glaring over her sunglasses. "That ass look fuckin' fine in those sweatpants. Nice and round. Like a little blooming peach. You been workin' out ya _gluteus maximus?"_

"Oh _yeah._" Lorna starts to climb into the back. "Totally been workin' out, doin' those...lifty thingys. Yunno, those dumbbells an' that."

"You are a _dumb_bell." Nicky snickers, and Lorna abruptly stops, shooting Nicky a threatening, frozen glare. "Hey, I'm jokin', alright? Sheesh."

Alex exhales as Nicky and Lorna disappear into the back of the vehicle. They're her best friends and sure, she _does_ love them (does she?), but she's always secondary to their venomous destruction. Not even informed about their (Lorna's) intentions of moving to Los Angeles, Alex feels a heightening of dejection rattling her decrepit brain, the optimum twilight of her dullness. They'dconfiscated a rare shot of delight, an opportunity for Alex to displace her distress, a_ chance _to return to pragmatism, to commonality, to a _reality _she's surprisingly fond of. She knows it's pathetically immature (because she doesn't really _know_ Piper), and it's not as though she'd _confront_ the matter at hand, but the magnification of her thoughts, the dim, dinghy, thoughts that master her mind, are eternally present

until her blood is inflated with drugs.


	9. California Dreamin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A solemn Alex feels disillusioned with the way her life has panned out. Her situation with Nicky awakens decade-long demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just grew to a monstrous length, so I've ended up cutting it in two. This part became very Alex-centric and explores several factors feeding her depression (so you'll see why she can't just jump into bed with Piper).
> 
> As always, thank you for all your kind words, favourites and follows. I hope you enjoy.

** _1996_ **

_Alex Vause hesitantly peeks behind the draping curtains; headlamps blazing, the entire school is illuminated from above, an excretion of excitement (and of judgement) confronting her head-on. She gulps, nerves snatching any sparkle of confidence, and retreats into the backdrop. 'Carol of The Bells,' hummed by the choir, fills the auditorium with a twinkling elation, that cringeworthy yuletide spirit Alex absolutely fucking detests; it's a talent competition, not a goddamn Christmas fest. And virtually every act has imposed it on a needy audience. Alex wants to deviate from such._

_"Yo, Vause," Nicky begins, grasping Alex's awareness. "You seriously think we're gonna win this with 'California Dreamin'?' It's a hella fuckin' move, dude."_

_"Yeah, Al." Lorna frowns, latched to Nicky's side. "I gotta agree with Nic. Nobody's gonna like it. Can't we just do a Christmas song?"_

_"Just trust me." Alex combs her fingers through long, slanted bangs. "It's my mom's favourite song and it's so fly."_

_"Ha!" Nicky sniggers, grappling her guitar by the neck. "Mommy's girl!"_

_"Fuck off, Nichols." Alex growls. "We're gonna win, and you know why? Because this song actually means shit to us. We're California dreamin' right now. 'I'll be safe and warm, if I was in LA?' That's, like, the home of the music industry. LA is where we wanna be."_

_"So," Lorna begins tentatively, "what ya sayin' is-"_

_Nicky continues with a smirk. "Cos' we look at the song in our own way-"_

_"Then we're gonna sing it with heart and soul." Alex finishes with a nod. "And that's the most important thing."_

_"Word." Nicky chuckles, nudging Alex's elbow with her own. "Comes in handy havin' you all emo."_

_As the announcer's booming voice echoes throughout the auditorium, Alex's quaking nerves are kicked into motion. "And now for our next act, we've got eleventh graders Alex Vause, Nicky Nichols and Lorna Morello with their fabulous cover of 'California Dreamin'!"_

_"Yay!" Lorna exclaims, prepping to sprint on stage._

_"Wait, we gotta kiss." Nicky insists, snatching Lorna's hand. "For good luck, yunno?"_

_"Oh..." Lorna says, a clear apprehension clouding her features. "O-Okay, Nic..."_

_As her friends' lips lock in a lengthy kiss, Alex internally groans at the sight. It's a fairly recent development within their clique, with Nicky and Lorna announcing their status during a brutal egging session on Halloween. Feelings completely pent-up for eons, Alex still doesn't know how to feel about her best friends suddenly dating. Excluded, yes. Riding on the coattails of the dreaded third wheel isn't particularly enjoyable. She'd like to be pleased for them, but their group dynamic has certainly changed. And Alex doesn't know how to feel about that either._

_Lorna eventually pulls away, unmistakable fear etched into deep brown eyes. "Nicky, stop...someone's gonna see us."_

_Nicky responds with an idle, lopsided, and hopelessly besotted grin, blinded to Lorna's impending doom. "_ _You're so beautiful."_

_"I'm fat." Lorna pouts, prodding her slightly rotund abdomen._

_"Not to me, Lorn."_

_Lorna's eyes widen. "So ya sayin' I'm fat to _other _people?!"_

_"N-No!" Nicky quickly exclaims. "I was...I was __sayin' __you ain't _fat. _You just, yunno, like eatin' a truckload of lasagna for lunch..." As Lorna's scowl intensifies, Nicky visibly gulps. "U-Uh, but you're, yunno, a bit chu...shit, man. I, uh...I ain't great with words."_

_"_ _Were you gonna call me 'chubby?!'"_

_"Y-Y-You can be chubby and beautiful...? Uh, cos', you're...a-actually I was gonna call you 'curvy', which is hot-"_

_"Nic, stop running your mouth." Alex groans. "You're not helping yourself."_

_"U-Uh...I love you?" Nicky smiles sheepishly as she twiddles with her thumbs._

_"D'aww, I love you too, Nic! Ya sucha cutie!" Lorna, suddenly satisfied by Nicky's words, presses a soft kiss against her cheek._

_"Gross." Alex cringes as she lifts her guitar, receiving two frightfully furious glares. "We're only sixteen and you guys are basically married. When's the wedding again?"_

_"When my cunt of a mother quits settin' me up with the sons of Israeli diplomats and Lorna's dad stops bein' a homophobic ass." Nicky snorts, an arrogance seething through her flippant assertion._

_Lorna gasps, staggering back from Nicky's hold. "Your dad is just as mean! He called you a disgustin' dyke!"_

_"Thanks for remindin' me, Lorn." Nicky grumbles, lifting the guitar strap over her head. "You're lucky, Vause. Diane's so fuckin' cool with you bein' gay."_

_"Apparently she knew when I was, like, nine." Alex emulates Nicky's actions, taking the utmost care in raising her most valuable possession. "But you know you're always welcome at mine if the homophobia gets too much."_

_"And that is why I am at home on a grand total of twice a month."_

_"Sorry, Nicky." Alex offers a weak, sympathetic smile while she fixes the positioning of her guitar. "I know it gets you down."_

_"Hey, uh, it's just another excuse for them to hate me." Nicky shrugs. "Whatever. It's fine."_

_"They'll...come around to it."_

_"Yeah..."_

_"Girls, you were announced five minutes ago!" Sam Healy comes charging in like an enraged bull, his enlarged abdomen always one inch ahead. "Are you getting out there or not?!"_

_"Apologies, Mr Healy." Alex responds dryly, a pure revulsion taking its course. Detested by the sight before her, she desires to sweep Healy off the fucking face of the earth. "We were just committing the act of lesbianism again. Can't keep away from the pussy."_

_Alex hears Nicky stifle a laugh as Healy digests the bait. "That's a fucking detention, Vause!" He hollers, a ludicrous insanity pouncing on his tone._

_Alex's lips craftily crackle into a presumptuous smile. "Aren't you not supposed to swear at us?" She looks down to her blinking, frazzled sidekick. "Nicky, isn't Mr Healy not supposed to swear at us?"_

_"Naughty naughty Samuel." Nicky imitates Alex's smirk. "You're gettin' coal in your stocking next week. Santa hates homophobic pricks."_

_"That goes for you too, Nichols!" Healy roars. "Both of you, cafeteria duty tomorrow afternoon! Now get the fuck out there! You're an embarrassment to the entire school!"_

_"You like pussy, right, Healy?" Nicky snickers, turning up the thermostat of terror because she can, because she's filthy rich and Healy can't challenge that. Alex wouldn't take things to such extremities because she can't, because she's pitifully poor and Healy can challenge that, so she allows Nicky to take the torch and sprint with it. "Or, uh, you like a big bit of ding-dong? I'm feelin' a lotta' self-hatred in there."_

_"That's it! Principal's office! Now!"_

_"The principal's in the audience, dumbass." Alex chuckles, shaking her head._

_"Tomorrow morning, principal's office!" Healy demands. "Both of you! And mark my words, if you two cocky little shits win, your prizes are confiscated!" Nostrils flaring and teeth gnashing in impeccable fury, Healy takes a second to compose himself before settling a softened gaze on Lorna. "But not yours, Miss Morello. You're a delightful young woman."_

_"Thank you, Mr Healy!" Lorna chirps, all in high-spirits._

_As Healy waddles out of the room, Nicky harshly stomps her foot down, heavy combat boots thumping on concrete gravel. Alex and Lorna spring away in surprise and exchange a perturbed glance, Alex praying (which she never does) that Nicky doesn't succumb to her vice. Alex knows Nicky needs extensive time to cool her throbbing system, and by that point the entire show would've been concluded last week._

_"Ssh, what's wrong, Nic?" Lorna takes Nicky's hand and rubs soothing circles in her palm. "What ya gettin' all mad for?"_

_"Lorn, he was creepin' on you again!" Nicky sputters, ample eyes enraptured with rage. "H-He ain't looked at your tits durin' gym, has he?!_ _"_

_"Nic, he don' teach gym." Lorna rightfully states. "And besides, you two are really mouthy. Ain't surprised he gets all pissy."_

_Alex snorts. "It's cos' Nic likes to show off in front of you, Lorn."_

_"W-What?!" Nicky exclaims in defense. "I-I ain't showin' off! When do I show off?!"_

_"Uh, all the time?" Alex jerks her head to flick her bangs. "Remember the skate park? 'Yeah, I can do a Backside Air, it's so easy.' And like, thirty seconds later, you fell off halfway up the ramp. I was laughing so hard."_

_"Fuck off, I'm great skateboarding! You're just jealous cos' you can't do an Ollie!"_

_"Guys, c'mon." Lorna whines with a petulant impatience. "Are we stickin' to 'California Dreamin'?"_

_Alex scoffs, rolling her eyes. "If I have to hear one more fucking Christmas carol I'm actually gonna hurl, so yeah, we're not changing it."_

_"Now you know how I feel durin' Hanukkah." Nicky grumbles sulkily. "Eight days of stupid songs, non-fuckin'-stop."_

_"Meanie." Lorna pokes Nicky's arm. "Holidays are fun. Ooh, I just love goin' to church on Christmas. You got midnight mass on Christmas Eve, midday mass on Christmas Day-"_

_"Borin'. You're just a gay bible thumper."_

_"I ain't gay." Lorna frowns, eyes narrowing in adamance. "I like _boys_, Nicky."_

_"Whoa, so I'm a _boy_ now?!" Nicky laughs stoically, emptily, and Alex senses an incoming argument reaching boiling point. "Mind blown! Shit, man, I-I didn't even know my own fuckin' gender! You learn somethin' new every day, eh?!"_

_"Seriously, guys, we gotta go." Alex swiftly cuts in, a gnarly anticipation arising in her churning stomach, chest constrained with an angst she fights to suppress, the unease she'll never unveil. "Healy's actually gonna have a valid reason to tell us off."_

_"L-Lorna's a fuckin' pussy!" Nicky stammers out, exasperation pedalling on. "S-She ain't admittin' she's as gay as us_ _ cos' she's married to Jesus!"_

_Lorna gasps. "You are _such _a-"_

_"Guys, _c'mon." _Alex groans. "Let's roll." She stretches her arm out, hand hovering in the centre of their makeshift triangle, spiked bracelets flashed in all their glory. "All for one..."_

_Nicky and Lorna stall for a second, glaring each other down, before piling a hand on to Alex's, Lorna's fishnet gloves and Nicky's animal ringed fingers airing their own special quirks._

_"And one for all!" They chant, a trio of hands skyrocketing into the air._

* * *

In the instant Alex crawls out of the taxi, she feels an instant rush of warmth envelope her body. Still adjusting to the placid, temperate climate of Los Angeles' fall, Alex peels off her leather jacket, a sheen of unpleasant sweat sticking skin and fabric together. She folds her jacket over her arm and straightens her sunglasses with a free hand, the blistering, blazing sunlight beating on her numbed body. With her latest high slipping farther out of reach, Alex's senses are overwhelmed by a cruel pain; teasing, taunting headaches and screeching muscles. She winces as a stabbing pang shears through her mind like a scythe, the horrid heat hardly caring for such terrifically terrible torture.

Stood before her is a lofty establishment embellished with the logo 'Universal Music Group.' Slim, elongated palm trees are dotted around the building, keeping prominent and proud in the humid landscape. A stone's toss away lies Santa Monica beach, and Alex's thoughts jolt to hushed waves. She'd rather be there, gaping into the ceaseless stretch of the Pacific Ocean, brain absent of aims and purpose, highas a goddamn kite. She'd rather be there than here, faced with the dreary prospect of entering her record label and reactivating the lucrative generator. It doesn't excite her. It doesn't arouse her intrigue. Not anymore. Her creative mind is flooded by a steady stream of prosperity, and it initiates a dullness to her duty. In such mechanical madness, it's all an inconvenience, a chore she must partake in, because she does love music but not really, not well and truly, not wholly and raw. Not anymore,

and not how she loves heroin.

Or does she? Fuck, she's unsure. Does she love Piper? No. Definitely not. Of course she doesn't. Does she love heroin and Piper? Can she love heroin and Piper, or has her wheel of misfortune taken another sadistic spin, rendering her so utterly, worthlessly incapable of loving anything?

Alex exhales, embracing crippling exhaustion. Her brain, forever in overdrive, is stuck in a rut, contained in a constant burnout, and she can't seem to emerge free. She sighs again, neatens her posture and strolls through automated sliding doors. Blasted by a frozen burst of air conditioning, Alex gratefully slides her jacket back on and settles in the centre of the plush waiting room, gazing at an extensive line of photographs adorning the walls; Photographs of musicians world renowned. On the edge displays her reflection, maybe at nineteen, twenty tops, and she's grinning with Nicky and Lorna on stage, instruments firmly within their command. Back when it was just them. Such pride, such accomplishment, such genuineenthrallment radiates from the image, not only from them but from herself. Fresh-faces and eyes wide with absolute wonder, Alex realises that this is not a mirror, and those people - that happy-go-lucky person mocking her misery - are complete strangers.

"You okay, Al?"

Alex's stinging eyes slowly trail down, providing Lorna with the anticipated attention. Heavy makeup already adorning soft features, an innocent pout firmly imprinted on red lips, Alex can't deny that Lorna is deathly gorgeous. Any sane individual with eyes could note it. Scoring straight elevens in the 'bang off,' Lorna upholds an unprecedented standard of beauty (in Nicky's eyes, anyhow). And in her shallow, trivial subconscious, Alex knows that Lorna's adorable allure is the primary selling point of their records. Besides herself (not arrogant, but absolute fact), Lorna is recognized for her picturesque physique. Of course, Alex would never venture along that route again; her fluctuating friendship with Nicky would forever dwell at rock bottom, gravity bearing an irresistible restraint on any slight recovery. Whether it's to salvage the remaining bonds with Nicky or to protect her own fucking life (she's thinking the latter), Alex knows exactly how far Lorna Morello stands out of bounds.

"Alex?"

Alex is stolen out of her thoughts and refocuses on Lorna's glitzy, designer sunglasses. "What...?" She fumbles out, head whacked and banged like an irregular crash of the cymbal.

Lorna places a delicate, soothing hand on Alex's arm. "I'm worried about ya. You're gonna get real awful wrinkles if ya keep frownin' like that. C'mon, cheer up."

Alex grits her teeth in a swallowing annoyance; she absolutely, positively resents being instructed to 'cheer up,' and especially when said imperative comes from Lorna, whose adamance to remain infinitely, falsely cheerful is exceedingly frustrating.

"Thanks for considering my inevitable ageing process." She grumbles, attempting to retain a neutrality in her demeanour.

"Hey, what's goin' on?"

Nicky's wild, frantic mane sneaks into view, her chin settling in the crook of Lorna's neck and two aggressive arms circling around Lorna's waist. She starts stamping down tender kisses as grappling hands crawl upstairs, paying particular attention to Lorna's lean abdomen, but Lorna awkwardly shifts out of the embrace before Nicky's palm fully encompasses her breast. Alex rolls her eyes behind shaded lenses, knowing they'd faced another tyrannical clash in their wake.

They're the strangers she knows scarily well.

Nicky smirks down at Lorna, sharply biting on her lower lip. "Lookin' great in that workout gear, doll. Lovin' the figure. So toned. Fuckin' tease, you know this shit turns me on. Up for a quicke in the bathroom?"

Lorna swiftly spins around and jabs Nicky in the chest. "Stop it." She seethes out. "I'm still pissed at you for turnin' ya nose up at that apartment."

Nicky lifts her palms in faux defeat. "Hey, I'm sorry, didn't mean to, uh...what did I say to ya, doll? Fuck, I forgot."

"Don't you play fuckin' innocent, asshole!" Lorna growls, lunging forth. "You called me a spoiled princess that always wants my way!"

"Well you are, Lorna!" Nicky snappily retorts. "I don't wanna fuckin' live here, but, uh, long as you're happy then hey, that's a-okay!"

"You are in no position to talk! It's either your way or no way, Nicky!"

Alex chuckles, a dark, dry and scornful tone slithering through. "I can't deal with this today. My head's about to fucking explode and I really, really don't wanna listen to you two fight about a load of petty shit. Grow the fuck up."

She doesn't even allow Nicky and Lorna to protest as she stomps away, ever consumed by the whirling tremors inside her crackling skull.

She'll be safe and warm, if she were in Los Angeles? Yeah right. She's not California dreaming. Not anymore.

She's in The Golden State of terrific nightmares.

* * *

Piper trots along the desolate streets of Washington Heights, arms jutting to and fro in a perfected pace, vibrant music pumping in her ears at extreme intensity. Breath completely controlled, her focus remains on retaining such rhythm, creating an efficient coordination between pounding feet, squealing lungs and her thumping, jumping heart. Reaching a particularly sharp bend, Piper withholds from going full throttle and strips back to a steady jog. She flies around the corner with enviable ease and speeds on, the tsunami of endorphins crashing against insecure shores, the endless coastline of her monotonous self.

As she inhales the sharp, cool air of the crisp fall morning, a sudden silence emerges, leaving an emptiness lingering in her ears. And then the song switches, the dramatic swap from predictable, upbeat pop to conceptual, limitless, stratospheric rock almost uncanny; a certain style of radical rock held exclusive to a specific group, one that Piper can determine absolutely anywhere. Core thoughts fade from sustaining her exemplary run, drifting freely towards her conversation with Alex Vause.

Lorna's sweet, delicate and melodic voice fills the progressive instrumental, and yet again Piper yearns for Alex to sing it. Lorna is snatching all the fucking attention. Again.

_"Lesbian Request Denied,_

_My lesbian request got denied..._

_Lesbian Request Denied,_

_My lesbian request got denied..."_

Of course, Piper doesn't dislike Lorna Morello. Recalling her shattering sobs in the bathroom, Piper knows that there's immense faults stapled to her guise; strangely familiar. She gathers there's a volcanic instability in Lorna's relationship, one scarcely comparable to her parents' pathetic marriage. Nicky Nichols is certainly an intriguing character (quite the compelling little asshole), but an erratic woman not cut from the cloth of monogamy. Neither is Alex, what with her slurred promiscuity and outwardly brash behaviour,

but drugs do change a person.

If Alex's calmer, controlled, captivating charms are anything to go by, Piper is certain that those fucking drugs have the capability to enforce all forms of disastrous damage. Sure, Alex had claimed she'd been 'sober-ish' (whatever that meant), but there was a defiant attachment, a consideration, a kindness Piper encountered. All by Alex Vause, infamously renowned rock superstar, walking the improbable hike to a personal repentance. Actually thinking about what she'd done - thinking about Piper - and needing to mark the change, to start afresh, to strike up a potential friendship (one that Piper will certainly push, even if there's a monstrous titan of an iron wall preventing such). Humane qualities stripped in the heat of Alex's high, Piper Chapman holds solid proof that, beneath the slippery surface, beyond horrifying headlines from vultures and insects alike, that Alex isn't bad.

Piper finds herself falling further in, the attraction making its gradual ascent along the rollercoaster of her devotion, her obsession(?) with Alex Vause growing all the more indulgent, thrilling, exciting as she sprints around Washington Heights, sweat soaking through layers of moisture-wicking material. She _needs _to make this count. She _needs _to grasp this opportunity with an intense, forceful hand, and never let it slide,

because she can't be fucking boring anymore.

_"So I'm fourteen fuckin' years old_

_And I'm thinkin' to myself_

_'This is bullshit, man, I'm not gay'_

_(Of course you are!)"_

* * *

"Yo, I fuckin' hate Carlin, man..." Tricia whines, popping up beside Alex at the extensive breakfast bar. "Thinks she's hot shit."

Alex chuckles wearily to herself. Tricia's vivid, levelled gaze is a powerful reminder of the person she once was; a nineteen year old with ambition, determination, a dream. Before the unruly storm of fame and fortune and drugs came looming sinister, corrupting Alex to a detrimental state, consuming what innocence used to prevail. Darkness has always been prevalent in her mind, but it once hovered in the shadows, only sneaking up on the sunniest of days, its malignant nature needing to destroy Alex's short-lived happiness. Now, it's a vortex of tyranny, swirling ceaselessly in her mind like any another addiction. She can't experience any other emotion, not truthfully,

unless she's with Piper.

_Ugh._

Alex heaps a teaspoon of sugar in her coffee, pale hands securely gripping the handle. "Hate's a strong word, Trish."

Tricia stretches across Alex to take a croissant from the hefty pile. _"You_ hate her."

Alex nods in admittance, keeping the focus on her coffee. "Very true, but in this business you've gotta make sacrifices. As Red said, Carlin can open loopholes for us in Australia. We're just using her."

"That don't seem right, Vause." Tricia frowns, and Alex twists her head in a mild surprise, fully locking eyes with her bandmate. "I dunno, it just...ain't that a bit phoney? Kinda goes against our whole 'keep it real' vibe, don't cha' think?"

"Well-"

Nicky saunters to Tricia's side. "Miller, if it means we're gettin' a few spondulix outta this, I ain't complaining."

"But I got a lotta money, Nichols. We all got a lotta money."

"I've gotta continue fundin' my great lifestyle, alright?" Nicky grabs a croissant and plonks it on her plate. "Plus, uh, it's always satisfying to know you're ten times richer then the deadbeat asshats that brought you into this shitty universe."

"Yeah, but-"

"Once you're rollin' in the dough, you don't wanna stop. Simple as that."

"I guess...?"

Nicky leans back and snidely peers to the adjacent side of the room. "Not to mention Miss Morello needs a constant fuckin' wad for her shopping sprees."

"Hey!" Lorna snaps, pouring scalding water into a bowl. "Your Grammys suit costed more than my car!"

"Cos' I gotta stay loyal to Gucci and you bought a fuckin' Jeep. Seriously, what singer drives a Jeep?"

"A singer that can actually drive." Lorna stirs the mixture with unnecessary force. "I can't get in the fuckin' car with you, Nicky. You think we're in Grand Theft Auto. Now stop bein' a jerk, I'm makin' you breakfast."

"What, with you boilin' me eggs in your little makeshift cooker bowl? Ha. Always knew you were my slave, doll."

"It's called instant oatmeal, you ass! I microwave this fuckin' water, stick the oats in, mash it together, and _this _is the thanks I get?! Lorna exclaims, slamming the bowl on the table and throwing herself onto a splendidly stylish sofa.

Alex thrusts up her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, struggling to restrain the rising rollercoaster of her rage. "Jesus..."

"Lorna, baby, we can't fight, remember?" Nicky cockily collapses beside Lorna and sinks down, legs leisurely stretching apart. "Vause is sick of our 'petty shit.' We need permission from The Chosen One."

Alex scoffs and sits opposite the pair. "Just because I wear glasses does not mean I'm Harry Potter." She slowly settles her steaming coffee atop of the table.

"I was thinkin' more along the lines of Obi-wan. Cos', yunno, he failed miserably and left the Force in fuckin' ruins."

Alex blinks, face frozen, somehow resisting the desire to roll her eyes. "I have never seen Star Wars, nor do I ever intend to see Star Wars. So whatever sarcastic dig you're trying to have, I don't fucking understand it. Kudos to you for really assessing your selection of sly ass comebacks."

"Damn." Nicky slings an arm across Lorna's shoulders. "You've really gotta get laid, man. Other night wasn't enough, huh?"

"Yeah, Al." Lorna nods, curling into Nicky's side and aimlessly tracing around the cross tattoo. "I can feel ya sexual tension just oozin' out like-"

"Never say 'ooze.'" Alex abruptly commands, eyes snapping up from Nicky and Lorna's locking fingers. "Just don't. It makes me wanna hurl."

Nicky sniggers, lifting her plate with a free hand. "You want an _oozin'_ chocolatey croissant, doll?"

"I'll have a nibble." Lorna slowly picks up the croissant, eyeing it with caution. "I'm tryin' to diet, hon. Keep my figure. There's lots of calories in that."

"Calories is bullshit, Lorna." Nicky asserts with unnecessary force. "It's just a measure of how much you're eatin'. Look, just don't be a greedy cunt and you won't end up like Boo."

Alex shakes her head in a surge of surprising bewilderment; almost twenty years on and Nicky Nichols still breaks the barriers of diplomacy and discretion, but Alex finds it consistently staggering to behold. "You are so fucking horrible."

"I'm an insult comic, Vause. It's how I roll."

"Yo, why's Nichols horrible?" Tricia skips along with a grin and settles beside Alex, plate piled to the brim.

"She's a fatist." Alex mumbles shortly. "At least the media got _something_ right."

Nicky sniffles, cranks up her middle finger, and resumes her intense focus on a chomping, salivating Lorna. "Holy fuckin' shit, Lorn. You're inhaling that croissant. Thought you said you were dietin'. Kinda defeats the object of you workin' out, huh?"

"Fuck it." Lorna murmurs through a mouthful, lipstick smudged by the light layer of chocolate. "I'll diet tomorrow."

"We're havin' Chinese tomorrow."

Lorna gulps down the last of the flaky pastry and groans. "Oh my god, I'm gonna get _so_ fat."

"You ain't gonna get fat, doll." Nickly drawls, gently rubbing the corners of Lorna's lips. "You're always runnin' in Central Park, doin' those, uh, half marathons."

"Five kilometres."

"Same fuckin'-"

"Ooh!" Lorna affirms, swatting Nicky's hand away. "I got an idea!"

"The apocalypse is upon us, gentlemen."

"_You_ could run with me, hon!"

"That's a fantastic idea, Lorna." Alex smirks sardionically, relishing in the opportunity to ruffle Nicky's feathers. "Absolutely revolutionary. With Nichols running, we'll see the makings of a new era in American sport. Soon she'll be shot putting like all the other lesbians."

Nicky flips Alex off once more, annoyance evidently brewing, and Alex smugly replicates the action. "Absolutely fuckin' not." She folds her arms in a sulk. "That's a terrible idea. I enjoy wakin' up at eleven, thank you very much."

"You do no exercise." Lorna insists with a scowl. "Next week, me and you, we're drivin' to Central Park and we're gonna go runnin' at seven. You gotta stop bein' a lazy bum."

"_Vause_._"_ Nicky whines. "Talk to her, man. I ain't gettin' up at seven. It's rush hour. Whole of Manhattan's a nut house."

"Sorry, Nichols." Alex says, tone trickling with farcical sympathy. "You're on your own."

"This is bullshit."

"Maybe ya won't be so fuckin' grouchy all the time if you start keepin' fit." Lorna states, wagging a finger.

"Yeah, yeah." Nicky grumbles, eyes heavy and lidded. She forces herself off the sofa, hands shaking by slight. "I-I'll be back in ten...I, uh, need a fag..."

As Nicky drags herself out of the room, fumbling with her cigarette packet, Alex exhales and stares into the deep abyss of swirling black coffee, an awkwardness hovering on the horizon. She glances to Tricia, who casually nips at a muffin, and then to a ravenous Lorna. Wolfing down a syrup-drenched waffle, Lorna gluttonously indulges in the fattening feast, and Alex thinks back to a simpler time; her high school cafeteria, which isn't the most _pleasant_ of experiences to recall, but a memory she still has fond command of. Lorna's appetite was insatiable, and Alex would often have her own lunch polished off. Lorna often claims her teenagehood pudginess was simply the remains of baby fat, but Alex knows, just like _everything _else, that Lorna Morello lingers in denial. Her appetizing amusement turns sour and tasteless as she thinks to Nicky stumbling out into sticky warmth and desperately inhaling flows of smog, and Lorna, who hasn't even acknowledged this, has never acknowledged that _either_ of them have a serious fucking problem, ignorantly, _selfishly_ demolishes her mammoth of a meal.

Lorna could've put a stop to this. She's just _watched_ them spiral out of control,

watched them for ten _years._

"She smokes two packs a day, Al."

Alex's head snaps up from the tranquil darkness of her rich expresso. Having polished off the heap of goodies, Lorna is transfixed by her compact mirror. She slides smooth lipstick across pursed lips, correcting any smudged faults that dare to remain, and successfully sustains her prettied perfection in the process. Lorna knows exactly how good looking she is and always capitalizes on it to the utmost (not that Alex can talk).

"Two packs...?" Alex frowns; she _hopes _that isn't true. She _needs_ it confirmed.

"Yeah." Lorna nods, scarcely peering away from her restrained reflection. "Like Tupac. Tupac, two packs."

"Yeah, I get it, I have ears, but..._wow..." _Alex trails off, words slipping into isolation. "I...I didn't know that."

"Yunno I only smoke pot once in a blue moon, but she's chuggin' out smoke like she's Thomas the Tank Engine."

Alex's brow creases at Lorna's astonishing nonchalance, a familiar fire reigniting in her banging, burning brain. She exhales, keeping discreet in her pursuit to stamp it out. "And that _doesn't_ concern you?"

Lorna shrugs and snaps her mirror shut. "She's an adult, Alex. I can't control her."

"Yeah, but...two packs a day is a lot, Lorna."

"Al, sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"We all make our own choices." Lorna softly smiles, brightly painted lips jutting out. "We ain't little kids, yunno. Now I don't get ya whole thing with smack, and I sure don't get it with Nicky either, but you guys like it. Just like Nicky enjoys smokin'."

"Yeah." Alex states, the storm coming to a hazy halt. It still niggles her mind, but refuses to grow in threat. Lorna's too fucking naive (and deluded) to ever accept or comprehend that everything is defective, with such a utopian bliss little beyond childlike idealism. "You're right. We do exactly what we want."

"Mmm hmm." Lorna nods idly. "Like me eatin' _oozy_ croissants-"

"Cut it out." Alex groans. "I fucking hate that word."

Lorna giggles. "Aw, why you all down in the dumps today, Vause? Is it cos' of Stella? Or you still all mad at me, Miss Sourpuss?"

"I'm not mad at you." Alex insists with a grumble.

Lorna smirks, eyebrow rising. "Uh huh."

"No, it's to do with that dingo fucker. I can't believe we're resorting to her to broaden our fanbase down under."

"Yeah, I don' understand neither. Who cares about New Zealand anyway? Ain't they got more sheeps than people?"

"I was talking about Australia, Lorna."

"Oh, yeah!" Lorna cries out, and Alex is taken aback by such sudden excitement. "They're all, like, funny Red Indians with those _awful_ tribal tattoos on their chests. I wouldn't want them goin' to our concerts. They'd be shoutin' out 'woo-woo-woo!'"

_Fuck me._

"Lorna."

"Hmm?"

"_I _have a tribal tattoo."

"So _you're_ a secret Australian." Lorna curiously cocks her head, inquisitive eyes narrowed. "Cos' you're parta' their tribe, ain't ya?"

"No, it's..." Alex sighs; her friend's relentless racism could be amusing at times, but Alex is hardly in the mood to entertain such remarks. "It's just a tattoo. Think of your heart. Just because you've got that tattooed doesn't mean you're a Care Bear."

"Oh. Yunno I was thinkin' of gettin' another one, maybe here." Lorna slowly rubs a finger along her left forearm. "Might get a an angel."

"It's your body." Alex says. "You could go full Stella Carlin whack if you wanted to. Sleeves, neck tats. Hey, why don't you get a neck tat like Trish?"

"What...?" Tricia mumbles, disengagement evident. "What's goin' on?"

"Shit, can you imagine the media?" Alex snickers. "They'd go into a fucking meltdown."

Lorna lours, a sullen sulk seeping through. "Knowin' Nicky she'd get off on it, but I ain't putting those stabby needles anywhere near my neck. And besides, they're so ugly. I gotta keep up my good looks."

"Yo, fuck off, man." Tricia scoffs. "I like my neck tat. It's fuckin' rock an' roll."

"Yeah, but it's a lotta ink. I like more...yunno, smaller-ish tattoos. They're cute."

"Minimalist?" Alex queries.

"Yeah, that."

"Yo, yo, what've I missed?" Nicky sways into the room, and an ashy, acrid odour wraps around her like a blanket.

Alex silently sniffles, inhaling the repulsive waft; fuck, does she _hate _that stale stench. Certainly not doing many wonders for her inflamed, injured self, the putrid perfume only heightens her wrenching mind. She clamps eyelids closed, wielding them together, keeping that tight compression in an effort to restrain the pain, before unfastening the seatbelt on her darkened vision. She looks to Nicky, who flops down on the couch, aviator shades sliding down her nose, and the air suddenly tastes of a sharpened, tarnished tar.

Tricia shrugs. "Uh, tattoo talk."

"So, uh, nothin' of importance." Nicky tugs out a hip flask from her jeans pocket and unscrews the cap. Steadying the edge, she trickles droplets into her coffee.

Before Alex can query the strange (albeit not abnormal) sight before her, Lorna is on the frontline. "What are ya doin'?"

"Just adding a little spruce to my coffee, doll." Nicky swirls the liquid by circling the cup, oblivious to the disused spoon just inches from her hold. "Quality Russian vodka. The stuff Red knocks back on a Friday night." As Nicky raises the cup, Alex, Lorna and Tricia simultaneously stare her way, and Nicky expels an uneasy chuckle. "W-What? I ain't a fuckin' alchie. I'm just...runnnin' low on other stuff."

"Why're you drinkin' so early, hon?" Lorna strokes Nicky's arm. "Look, you ain't even touched ya breakfast." She points to the lone, full bowl of oatmeal on the table.

"Uh, just my brain talkin' too much." Nicky shrugs, her smile strained. "Nothin' to worry about. I'm ripe as a raisin."

Lorna frowns. "Sweetie, eat your oatmeal. You like oatmeal."

Nicky rolls her eyes. "Pie. I like oatmeal pie. With a Costco-sized bag of sugar dumped into it. Not this gooey shit."

"Nicky, people are starvin' in Antarctica. Stop bein' so ungrateful and eat ya food."

"I'm not hungry, Lorna."

"C'mon, lemme feed you, hon." Lorna picks up the spoon and waves it in Nicky's face. "Open up, ya big baby."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Nicky murmurs, parting her lips. Lorna giggles and leans forward, shovelling a lump of oatmeal into Nicky's mouth.

Alex's eyes shift with hesitance. She's quite unsure how to react, and judging from Tricia's furrowed brow, she isn't the only one. _Fuck, my friends are weird, _she thinks, grimacing by slight as Nicky swallows and beams absurdly, as if a high instantly soars to its peak. Lorna smiles, pecks Nicky's cheek and scoops up another load of oatmeal. Alex and Tricia look to each other, unfortunate outsiders observant, and Alex cocks a bemused eyebrow. _You'll get used to this, Trish, _she wishes to say, but even after a dragging decade of interminable dramatics, with Nicky and Lorna springing up and down like an elevator out of control, Alex hasn't adapted to such rapid change. And it's fucking exhausting to try.

Alex finds her thoughts wandering,

As Nicky dutifully gulps down another mouthful, Alex smirks at the sight, consumed by the sudden temptation to fling a ridiculing remark (okay, so she's _still _pissed at them, but she'll be discreet about it). "You two secretly love this." She chuckles, and as if they'd rehearsed it countless times back stage, Nicky and Lorna respond with ferociously filthy looks _(good_, now she's pissed _them_ off_)_. "It's basically a censored, PG-Rated version of your gross ass food porn."

"Do _not_ say shit to Boo, alright?" Nicky growls. "She's gonna start thinkin' I've got a mommy kink."

"And do you?" Alex challenges with a slight smirk.

"Tsk. Fuck you, man."

"Who's got a mommy kink?" Boo strolls along, a cup of coffee at hand.

Lorna narrows her eyes. "You're always stickin' ya nose in, wantin' to find shit out. Well it ain't none of ya business, alright?"

"You're feeding a grown ass woman." Boo scoffs, settling beside Alex. "Do you expect me _not _to ask questions?"

"_Noneofyabusiness." _Lorna speeds through her words.

"You mean you _don't _want to flash your relationship in my face? Now _that_ is a juicy plot twist."

"Do you even read, Boo?" Nicky sniggers. "Or, uh, does your _perception _of quality writing conform to that stack of pornographic mags you've got stored in the loft?"

"Suck my big, fat, dyke dick, Nichols." Boo fires back, a coy smirk unveiled. "Now I'm sure _Lorna's _very good at that, considering-"

"L-Lorna fuckin' told you not to bring that up!" Nicky seethes, teeth gritted, fury siegeing her stability.

_Shit._

"Okay, you need to calm the _fuck _down, Nicky." Alex desperately demands, unnerved by the horrific humiliation crossing Lorna's features; she knows _exactly_ what's going on, knows just what's being referenced (_again_), but she can't directly cross that bridge. "Boo was _joking."_

"That's rich comin' from you, Vause!"

"What the actual fuck is your problem?"

"Wouldn't you _love _to know?!" Nicky expels a harsh, derisive, and taunting laugh. "Y-You've been actin' like a moody fuckin' cunt since we got here! Alright, I broke your bed, set the sprinklers goin', but I fuckin' apologised! Get over it!"

"_I've _been acting like a moody cunt?!" Alex cracks under the pressure. "You and Lorna don't stop fucking fighting! It's driving me _insane!"_

"GO FUCK YOURSELF!"

Nicky springs up and storms out, quaking with untold, unrestrained frenzy. Lorna, Tricia and Boo silently follow her trail before resettling their focus on Alex, and _fuck_,

Her nightmare's only just begun.

* * *

** _1996_ **

_Alex ploughs out of the principal's office, platform boots pounding the ground with every slog._ _Fucking Healy for making it his fucking pathetic priority to __ruin_ _Alex's win; they'd absolutely smashed the competition to smithereens_, _voices and acoustic guitars blending in perfected synchronicity. But _no, _Healy's unnecessary report to the principal had left her in the gruesome trenches of second place, which meant zilch, zero, _defeat.

_"This is the fifth time this week, Al."_

_Upon hearing the nasally, New Jersey twang she's adored since birth, Alex leers down at a sullen Diane. A giant in comparison (even in absence of the boots), Alex folds her arms in a defiant act of disobedience, a cool, cocky reserve crossing her countenance, and she _knows_ that'll intimidate her mother. A second drifts and Diane refuses to submit; she squints her eyes, lips pressed into a horizontal line. Just as rebellious as her daughter, Diane stands her guard, and an intense staring contest commences._

_Eventually, Diane breaks the mould. "Ally, stop it. You're bein' a fuckin' baby."_

"Mom." _Alex grunts in a surly, morose manner. "Don't call me that."_

_"What, gonna ruin your badass reputation round here?"_ _Diane snarks._

_"No, but-"_

_"Look, I know that Healy's a fuckin' ass, but he's a teacher." Diane sighs, her tone subduing. "You don't start gettin' up in his face like you're parta' the fuckin' 'Gangata's Paradise.'"_

_"He's really homophobic, mom." Alex mumbles, her own harshness weakening, insecurities escaping through a diminishing frontage. "Like, _really_ homophobic_._"_

_"I know, sweetie, but ya can't...ya can't keep pullin' stunts like this. It ain't good for your scholarship application."_

_"I'm not doing it."_ _Alex_ _states shortly._

_"What...?" Diane frowns. "Al, you said-"_

_"Yeah, I know what I said, but I don't wanna go!" Alex's crackles, all the pent-up animosity unleashed in a blistering burst of fire. "I'm not getting into college, so why bother applying for a stupid fucking scholarship?!"_

_"Don't you raise your tone with me!" Diane snaps, and Alex is slightly thrown off course by her mother's unexpected outrage. "Stop tryin' to be fuckin' cool! I'm gettin' sick of this shitty attitude!"_

_"What attitude?!"_

_"The attitude you're givin' me right now! It ain't my fault you got double fuckin' detention for the next week! You really wanna throw your life away just cos' of some silly street cred?! Cos' that's what you're doin', Alex!"_

_"Mom, I-"_

_"NICOLE!" The shocking shrill of Marka Nichols slices through Alex's defense, voice faintly muffled in the other room. "You are an embarrassment to this entire family!"_

_Alex hears the sound of heels clacking across marble, and Marka sharply struts into the room, fine hair glossy and ironed, her wardrobe exquisite (and likely more costly then the Vauses' yearly rent). By contrast, Nicky slugs behind, her mane roaming free and a rolled-up, distressed band shirt (Guns N' Roses, which Alex appreciates) showcasing her cross tattoo._

_Whereas Alex and Diane are blatantly related, Nicky and Marka bare no resemblance._

_"And put that horrid thing away!" Marka points to Nicky's arm. "I still can't believe you trekked to New Jersey just to get...get _that_ tattooed! It's an eyesore! Amy Bloom thought you'd become a chiksa! And heaven forbid what Rabbi Adelmann thought!"_

_Nicky clenches her teeth, quivering with untold terror. "Rabbi Adelmann and Amy Bloom can suck on my pussy, cos' I love fuckin' beautiful Italian _chiksas_ til' they cum all over my sheets!"_

_Don't you dare address me with such vulgarity!" Marka hisses. "Do you have any idea what Marcia Goldstein asked me in Macy's?!"_

_"I don't give a FUCK!"_

_"She asked me if you were mentally handicapped! You constantly humiliate me! For people to believe that you're an imbecile makes me look utterly ridiculous! But you know, I'm beginning to think you are, what with this Lorna nonsense-"_

_"I FUCKIN' HATE YOU!" Nicky shrieks in Marka's face._

_"Honestly, Nicole! You're so spoiled! You take and you take and this is how I'm repaid?! With hate?! Unbelievable!"_

_Alex_ _and Diane stand silent and exchange a quick, restrained glance; in that moment Alex wants to apologise, reassure her love for Diane, explicitly illustrating that point in front of Nicky and Marka, but she doesn't._

_Marka refixes her gaze on Alex and Diane, steals a moment to scrutinise them (and their Wal-Mart attire) before offering a meaningless greeting. "Hello_ _, Diane."_

_"Hi, Marka."_ _Diane_ _forces a stiff smile; Alex knows just how far her mother detests Marka Nichols._

_"For the fifth time." Marka sighs. "My goodness, I apologise for my daughter's foolishness. I'm sure she's an awful influence on Alex."_

_"Alex makes her own choices." Diane says. "Trust me, this one ain't influenced. That right, Al?"_

_Alex_ _and __Nicky briefly lock eyes, and Alex can __feel_ _every strike of torture gushing from Nicky's soul. __"Yeah, uh..." Alex turns to Marka. "I actually started mouthing off to Healy first. It's...kinda my fault."_

_"And you're proud to admit that?" Marka scoffs, thinly threaded eyebrows on the rise. "Well..."_

_"The kids were great last night, huh?" Diane asserts. "They should've won. 'California Dreamin' is a real trip down memory-"_

_"Oh, I wasn't there-wait, Nicole, you said you'd won!" Marka hollers. "Pamola made the effort to actually phone your father and tell him!"_

_Nicky scoffs. "Good for Pamola!"_

_"Well you're going to win your next piano competition! No ifs, no buts! And so help me, if I have to pay off the judges again I will! I need to be redeemed, because having a dyke for a daughter is ruining my image!"_

_Alex's eyes flick to Nicky in horror; hushed tears cascade down Nicky's blotchy cheeks, big brown orbs gawking out with an unrecognisable absence. Marka glares down at Alex with a frosted hostility, upper lip raising in a challenging scorn, and Alex shivers at the cold contact. The ice only starts to thaw when Marka turns to Nicky, whose silent, shuddering sobs cause her own eyes to glaze._

_"...well, uhm," Diane chuckles awkwardly, and Marka snaps back into her biting bitterness, "knowin' our kids I'll probably be seein' you next Monday mornin'."_

_"No, you won't." Marka sneers, pristine nails clasping over Nicky's shoulder. "She's staying with her father next week. He's a waste of space. Never bothers."_

_"Oh. Right. Well...you comin' round later, Nicky?"_

_"She's grounded. For a month. And that means no sneaking off to make out with that podgy little chiksa either-"_

_Nicky harshly clenches her fingers, and the trembling ascends. "She ain't podgy, she's _gorgeous_!"_

_"Ugh, I cannot get that repulsive image out of my-"_

_"Can you leave?" Alex challenges, glaring grimly at Marka; she doesn't think, doesn't assess, not like she'd normally do. She dives in head first, because now Marka Nichols is getting personal, and she's _not _having it. "__Please? Your face is annoying and your homophobia stinks of shit."_

_"ALEX!"_ _Diane yells, eyes wide with dread._

_"What?! I'm sorry, mom, but she's a cunt!It's pissing me off!_

_"Absolutely zero respect." Marka snarls. "Honestly, Nicole, I'm starting to believe you're influenced by this...filth. What a horrible attitude. Now come along, move it." She pushes a dazed, blank Nicky along. "You've got class. I can't stand around to entertain your friend's nonsense."_

_"...okay..." Nicky murmurs, uninhabited by anything._

_As a harrowing quiet emerges, Diane seething with restrained rage, Alex's nerves start to kick and punch and stamp._

_Fuck._

_She's made it worse._


	10. The Lesbro Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Nicky reach loggerheads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but quite intense reading, so I decided to cut this part off from the remainder. Just to give ya'll a chance to recover from the angst. It's a strong focus on the chaos that is Alex and Nicky's friendship (and, by extension, why this will be the catalyst to 'befriend' Piper), but everyone will be back in the next chapter!
> 
> I just wanted to give everyone a big thank you for all your messages over these last few days. It truly does encourage me to keep on writing this story and continuing with the intended plot. They've truly given me that much needed confidence boost (again!). I'm hoping that'll be the final time I have to post an author's notice like that, as I know you guys would much rather read a chapter as opposed to one of my rambles.

_ **1996** _

_Alex finds herself staring inside her opened locker instead of attending class (it's English, which means Mr Healy, which means it can literally fuck itself), and she grows enamoured by the gaping, emptied hole. She doesn't know why or how she's come to this, aimlessly gazing at nothing or nobody. She's procrastinating, yes, and most certainly places her English grade at the risk of slaughter, but she'd rather be standing in a simple tranquility than sitting admist an uneasy cacophony. And anyway, it's not as though she cares about her progression in school; she doesn't care about anything._

_And then a swift attack is imposed upon her lower back, the stabbing pain panging her spine._

_Alex is quick to spin around in a furious need to uncover the source. "What the hell, Jess..." Instead of the mocking, sadistic smirk of her enemy, Alex is greeted by her convulsing, jaw clenching, flush faced best friend. "N-Nicky?! Why did you punch me?!"_

_"Why the fuck did you do that?!" Nicky lunges forward, cornering Alex against the wall. "Now she's gonna hate you!"_

_"What?!" Alex snaps, staring Nicky straight down, height always on her side; she overshadows Nicky like an obelisk, effectively asserting her dominance. "I was just sticking up for you! It's the Lesbro code!"_

_Nicky refuses to abide. Her fists balled, face blazing red, she hurls ahead, arms swinging every which way. Alex darts to the side and watches Nicky collide into the lockers, metal clanging with unexpected aggression. Nicky strikes once, twice, thrice, igniting an absolute ruckus in the corridor, and Alex frigidly watches her friend on the rampage; she's forever tiptoeing around Nicky, knowing the slightest remark sees the ticking time bomb explode. Alex grits her teeth, thinking back to fucking Marka and how she's the oblivious cause, the person responsible for wiring such a weapon (Les too, but fuck fathers; Alex has never met hers, nor does she plan to)._

_(Yet.)_

_"What the fuck?!" Alex exclaims. "You're so messed up! She was being a homophobic bitch! Did you just expect me to just stand there?!"_

_"YES...!" Nicky howls, slamming the lockers for a final time, a crimson stream trickling down red raw knuckles._

_"Have you fucking finished?!"_

_What Alex doesn't anticipate is for Nicky to suddenly break down, a waterfall of tears flooding free. "Y-You don't do that, okay...?" She croaks out. "You...you don't say shit...not to Marka..."_

_Alex's eyes widen in a staggering realisation; fuck, now she gets it. Nicky's set to face further torment, throbbing fingers glued to zebra keys for hours upon end, ceaselessly playing at an unsustainable rapidity, overworked into an early grave, all to conform to Marka's expectations. And it's something Alex had directly facilitated because she'd felt attacked by the homophobic remarks, acting as though she were defending herself._

_Alex shakily sighs. "N-Nicky, I-I'm-"_

_"Just stay outta' my fuckin' life, Alex..." Nicky mumbles grimly, miserable black eyes vacant of any being. "It's none of your business...g-get a fuckin' girlfriend or somethin', I dunno...j-just leave me alone..."_

_On that note, Nicky lumbers past Alex, and Alex notes tiny droplets of blood sprayed across the floor._

_Alex figures there's little point in supporting others; when nobody fucking cares, acting the hero is absurd senseless. She's normally the bystander while Nicky dashes into all the action, both senselessly selfish in their pursuits. But when Alex has a taste of the limelight, there's no reward, no fulfillment, nothing that can possibly numb her gloaming gloom,_

_because nobody fucking cares._

* * *

Alex figures she needs to apologise to Nicky; she's become quite the professional at that.

An arid heat explodes against her as she strolls outside, leaving behind the bursting draught of air conditioning. Her body instantly encompassed by hot blasts, she sheds the weighty layer of leather skin and carefully folds it over her arm; the jacket is exceptionally expensive, and Alex certainly doesn't want it creased.

It's not as if she wishes to apologise. Nothing happened. And what was mentioned, the secret sword of eons ago dug up and slicing Alex's skin into shreds, that one spontaneous mishap, is something she'd so profusely repented for. Alex, deep down, has always known Nicky continues to express a relentless resentment for the incident, never wholly putting it to pasture. And Alex shouldn't really be surprised, because Nicky's entire conscience feeds on such petty preoccupations. Of course, Alex still regrets sleeping with Lorna (she always will), but it's rather due to the fractured friction than her actually upsetting Nicky. To rid herself of the grime, acknowledging her mistakes (for the umpteenth time, no less) is the only way of soaking it up.

As she appoaches the line of grand palm trees swaying in slight breeze, she spots Nicky propped up against one, all focus homed in on the cigarette parked between her lips. Frazzled hair more disheveled than ever, and with golden, teeth-baring animal rings adorning each finger, Nicky Nichols bares ferocious correspondence to a lion scanning the savanna. Mane, claws, and a standoffish, faintly remote air that encompasses every inch of her being. She pauses, takes a prolonged drag of her cigarette, and the gritty waft unapologetically pollutes her surroundings. Maybe she's calm, but it's likely she isn't. Alex knows that the grisly beast inside, the lion constantly crawling around, is never completely tame. It's a different darkness to her own; an uncontrollable infero always seeking to be unleashed, one that's fuelled by the core of obscene loathing, hatred, and despair.

Alex only has the latter.

She exhales and, preparing herself for the lion's release, steps forward. Nicky glares up in a heartbeat, almost sensing Alex's incoming aura. Sunglasses fallen to the edge of her nose, Alex sees the vacancy in Nicky's soul; lids collapsing and bloodshot by the miserable perils of withdrawal. It's a look Alex can recall because it's a look she harbours, eternally screaming out for that next surge of the enthralling haze, desperate, fucking desperate to have it, have it, have it.

It's an unrecognisable look Alex has got to know well.

"Look, Nicky," Alex begins, but it blows freezing cold; she doesn't want to mention that incident. It's a complete farce, because it's buried in the layers of their past, and that's where it needs to remain. "I just really need to get high, okay?"

"So do I, but not when Red's comin' in with her fuckin' hawk eyes!" Nicky snaps, blinking eyes gaping wide. "You know the rules! Why'd ya think I've been smokin' and drinkin'?!"

"Yeah, it really takes a genius to figure that one out, Nichols." Alex bites back; Nicky doesn't meet many matches, but Alex is ever present to lend a helpful hand. "I've felt like shit all morning, and not in the metaphorical sense. No matter how fucking fast I run, I literally cannot escape this...this prison in my brain. I just can't. Not without H."

"What, and you think I can?!" Nicky growls, harshly dislodging her burning cigarette and tossing it to the ground. "It ain't all about you, Vause! Stop bein' so fuckin' selfish! I got a fuckin' crap heap dumped in my head!"

"I'm selfish?!" Alex can feel her own fire burning through the chill. "Seriously?! You prance around like you're the centre of the universe, thinking your issues are the only fucking thing that matters! You were exactly like this in school! Everything was always about you! It is not the 'The Nicky Nichols' show!"

"Fuck you!" Nicky shrieks, stamping ahead, and her sunglasses tumble to the ground under the unanticipated pressure. "My shit stank worse than yours, Alex! Stank like a fuckin' donkey pile! You were just bullied for havin' a cock! What kind of fuckin' retard would go around tellin' people that?!"

"You know how everyone found out!" Alex explodes out, reliving the terror of relentless torment, the barbarity of Jessica Wedge flashing through. "Just because you have Obsessive Lorna Disorder doesn't mean you can deny that she fucking told everyone!"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Nicky roars, slamming against the rough bark with a shuddering fist.

Shit.

That hasn't happened for years; not since Red became their manager.

Nicky's quaking with a raw rage as her fist slides away and unclenches. Alex stares down and blinks, her reaction numbed by by a cruel combination of the slicing sting in her skull, the near-constant blackness shrouding her thoughts, and the need to rid it all. She doesn't quite know what to say or do (she never does when Nicky's in this state), so she stands, waiting for peace to succeeded the storm.

"Fuck..." Nicky hisses, only just glancing to angry grazes on beaten, bloodied knuckles.

"Nicky, I..." Alex starts, unsure what route she's about to trail along, but as Nicky's hollow, shuttering eyes glaze over, Alex exhales and carries on. "This wasn't necessary. I provoked you. I know Lorna can be a touchy subject for you, and I sshouldn't have used her as ammunition. B-But..." Alex quickly swallows the dry lump forming in her throat. "...the bullying is a touchy subject for me. You know exactly how bad it was. And whatever you say, she did tell half the school."

"...f-fuck..." Nicky gulps as a sneaky tear rumbles down her cheek. "I-I know it hurt, what Lorna did...I ain't denying shit, cos' it was fuckin' uncalled for...and yeah, I defintitely should not have called you a retard, that was disgustin'...I'm sorry, Alex...it's just really fuckin' hard to keep my anger in check, yunno? W-When I need dope...it's the only thing that keeps me fuckin' sane..."

"Nicky, don't cry."

"I-I ain't cryin', I just get like this when I'm mad, you know that..." Nicky furiously paws her eyes. "I swear I ain't c-cryin'..."

Alex anticipates tears brewing in her stinging eyes; she can feel every single speck threatening to downpour, her throat aching to release them from captivity, but she's able to blink them into oblivion. This, she supposes, is where the staggered junction lays in their two-lane street, no longer racing parallel with one another. When she's not high, Alex keeps a solid grasp on her emotions; she can suppress them at will, exhibiting her renowned poker face if the matter calls. It's a learned ability she takes pride in (whether she should is debatable). All the crippling faults, the horrors of her fragile mind, remain as thoughts, conceptions, the unreality of her tormenting truth. But Nicky has a molten touch, fingertips just scathing the scalding surface of stability. She tries to grip them whole, tries to displace that deranged despair, and yes, most indeed collapse into her trap (even Lorna), but she'll never have Alex fooled, no.

This, Alex gathers, is why Nicky needs Red more than she. A mother. This, she considers, is due to their starkly contrasting catastrophes; Alex Vause, ridiculed by her peers, slowly teaching herself that you can't show them how you're really feeling, Alex. Nicky Nichols, ridiculed by her parents, not being taught anything at all. This, Alex knows, is the difference that remains, the difference that leaves Nicky far more fucked up than herself, unable to comprehend and control her own fucking feelings.

She's no good for Nicky and Nicky's no good for her, the vicious circles of their despair gelling at the centre.

(Not that she'd admit any of this aloud, because when is Alex Vause ever earnest?)

Oh, yeah. With Piper. But Piper's different. Somehow. Alex still can't comprehend why.

"But, uh, but you hurt me too, Alex." Nicky asserts, confidence resuming and eyes drying up. "Lorna and I, we...look, I just love her. I know we're not always on great terms, but we fight through it. So, uh, when you said our marriage would fail, that's...that's been fuckin' with my mind, alright?"

"What?" Alex frowns, puzzled by this mysterious revelation. "When did I-"

"Yesterday. At the airport."

"Fuck..." A sprinkling of yesterday's events remain unfiltered in Alex's mind, but it's not as though she'd expected Nicky to take offense (or maybe she had). "Why didn't you just tell me, Nicky? You normally do."

"Cos', uh, we'd been fightin' before, and I didn't wanna start that shit again." Nicky shrugs. "But hey, it didn't avoid the inevitable. We're like two pickle-jars. Impossible to open up without the trigger tool, but then, once said tool is applied, we're unleashin' all our bad shit like a can of worms."

"Worms do come from the ground." Alex figures.

"Exactly. And what is also underground, Sister Vause?"

Alex expels a weak, reluctant chuckle. "Is it hell, Rabbi Nichols?"

"_Ken, ken, meulah._" Nicky nods, her accent a thorough fusion of gravelly New York and a lighter Israeli twang.

"How are you quadrilingual again?" Alex raises an eyebrow. "You're like Google Translate. It's fucking freaky."

"The magic of money, Vause." Nicky slips into her cocky composure with accurate ease, self-posession binding to the feral lion chanting within. "Every little bit helps when you're learning three languages simultaneously."

"Okay, with hindsight maybe I was better off living on pot noodles and having the electricity cut twice a week."

"Your mom actually likes you, so yeah, you probably were. But hey, I got other people now. Fuck Marka. She can shove those evening French classes up her flappy ass."

"And I'm happy for you, Nichols." Alex smiles weakly. "For having Red. You deserve her."

Nicky blinks, exhales, eyes shimmering, not realising Alex's reluctance. "She ain't my mom though, is she? Not like yours."

"I...guess not."

"And, uh, Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry." Nicky sighs, roughly massaging her temple. "About the other night. With that blonde chick in the club. I know you liked her. It's, uh, yunno...it's amazing when you find that one girl. I didn't think I'd wanna settle, but, with Lorna...god, I love her so fuckin' much."

Alex wants to confide in Nicky. She truly does. Wanting answers. Wanting to know exactly what love looks like. If it's what she can apply to Piper. Telling Nicky that she'd plucked up all the courage to walk into that nightclub and apologise, to start afresh, that maybe, just as a slithering possibility, her and Piper could be something more. _But that's crazy,_ Nicky would say, likely with a laugh. _You're a freefaller, dude. And she's just a fuckin' barmaid. You can do better._ And that would be that, Nicky switching subjects to that busty Korean lady in the hotel foyae, or Lorna's ultra-slimming gym shorts that aren't really shorts. Nicky wouldn't really consider Alex's feelings (if she can call them that) for Piper. And that's not abnormal; nobody cares when Alex is the subject of choice.

She really does want to discuss Piper, because Nicky could deliver some sound advice. Shedding light on the situation, guiding Alex into comprehending whyPiper Chapman, a woman she hardly even knows, is all that brings on a genuine bliss, as though she's enclosed within an oasis. But then the mention of Lorna sees Alex retreat into her shell, the mouth of the clam tightened with deathly disturbance; the sheer disappointment that persists, because Nicky tries to knot loose threds, tries to repair the crackling glass, but she restricts the renovations to herself.

Granted, Alex can't exactly talk; she sought Piper out to satisfy an unshakeable selfishness, to deflate the balloon of despair. Did she not? Of course she did. Partially, anyhow (because she is attracted to her; that's indisputable). Irregardless of the extent, Alex realises that they're both senseless, inconsiderate egomaniacs, her and Nicky alike, and yes, she does blame the excess fame and fortune for exacerbating such, pumping the air for their ever bloating arrogance. How depressing. That's why they're consistently battling, the absolute clash of atrocious absorption. She's never loved a person because she can't, because her hardened haughtiness prevents her from doing so,

and even then, she doesn't truly love herself.

Alex wants to confide in Nicky, her best pal, her second self, her lesbro, but she just can't. Nicky's changed. So has she. They're a mess and neither can cleanse the other. And now Nicky's staring back at her as if she knows, as if she deciphers every fucking thought in Alex's mind, scanning her with imposing intent, and Alex feels her insides collapse as she rapidly concocts a response.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Nicky. We were high. Doesn't count."

"You sure, dude?"

"Yeah." Alex nods. "Positive."

* * *

** _1996_ **

_Picking up her tray, Alex treads away from the serving counter and scans the unruly atmosphere. She thinks of the cafeteria like a zoo. All the wild, crazed animals showcased for feeding, they prowl about the room like predators on the hound, pouncing those who seem meek and forthcoming, intimidating them into submission. Glaring, snarling, everyone bound together in their packs. It's the only way to survive._

_"Hi, Freakazoid!"_

_The smarmy, sickeningly sweet shrill of Jessica Wedge pounds against Alex's heart, a mild horror arising in her screeching stomach. Jessica Wedge, the redheaded rascal responsible for Alex's eternal tumult. Always finding absolute joy in passing sadistically snide statements, Alex believes Jessica has an underlying vendetta, but she can't quite determine what. And it's not as if she even cares, because she's still upset about her situation with Nicky, so Jessica resides at the rock bottom of her priorities._

_Alex sighs and glances to Jessica, who is perched up on the table, height exceeding the gaggle of nameless girls sitting beneath her. "What do you want?"_

_"Oh no." Jessica smirks. "Fe, fi, fo, fum, the lesbo giant is angry. Stand your ground, ladies. She might rape us with her-"_

_"Seriously, I'm not in the mood for your shit. Just leave me alone."_

_"I would," Jessica drawls with a detestable nonchalance, "only Courtnei with an 'I', not a 'Y', said you were a peeping Tom in the changing room last week. So, like, you're a creepy dyke."_

_"What...?" Alex's eyes widen at the heinous accusation. "I-I never-"_

_"Ugh. Well obviously you're not gonna admit it when the whole school's here. But I know you're a fucking pervert, Alex. I bet you loved looking up the cheerleaders' skirts. It's, like, such a typically lesbian thing."_

_What with Nicky, Marka and now Jessica tossed into the mix, Alex's temper takes a terrible turn; she can normally sustain her inanimate composure, but exceptional circumstances call for conflicting measures. "What is your fucking problem, Jessica?!"_

_"Well," Jessica begins, her smirk widening, "you're an ugly fucking music geek with a band of midgets, you're poor as fuck and you've got a weird ass freaky deformity. Like, why weren't you raised as a boy? That would've made more sense. You should've sucked out your breasts so-"_

_"JUST FUCK OFF!"_

_Alex doesn't expect to lose it, but Jessica's prodding and prying and pushing her in unimaginable directions, and there's only so much she's able to absorb. She knows everyone's heard her shouting, but in the admist of her horror she completely disregards the thought. Heaving heavily, the tray nearly released from her hold, Alex stares silently at Jessica, and for a swiftly splitting second, she swears a tinkling of regret starts to sparkle in Jessica's eyes._

_"VAUSE!"_

_And the collected coldness resumes as Healy bellows from the other side of the cafeteria, enforcing a deafening tranquility from the student body. Alex still couldn't give a shit._

_Healy thunders over to Alex's side, chubby cheeks a flaring scarlet, bright in contrast to coiffed, silver strands. "Detention!"_

_"What?!" Alex exclaims. "Why?!"_

_"For using such profanity in the cafeteria!"_

_"This is bullshit! She-"_

_"Do you want a second trip to the principal's office?!" Healy booms. "No?! Then I suggest you sit down and eat your lunch like everybody else!"_

_"Fucking asshole..." Alex grumbles as Healy treads away._

_As per the norm, Jessica's table expel a cacophony of squealing, screeching laughter. It's far from a satisfying sound, and Alex needs to preserve her hearing. She exhales, looks ahead, always blinkering it out, tells herself that you can't show them how you're really feeling, not again, before proceeding to tramp towards her usual table._

_"Bye, bye, Pigsty!" Jessica calls out, but Alex refrains from responding._

_As Alex finalises the agonizing trek, she spots Nicky and Lorna sitting in isolation. They exchange hushed whispers and frivulous titters, occasionally stopping to nibble their lunches. Nicky smirks, turns her snapback backwards, and the brash gesture evokes another giggle from Lorna. She leans in, twists the snapback to the side, earning one of Nicky's mindlessly loopy smiles, and takes a hoggish, whole bite from her Milky Way. Observing their antics from afar, Alex does have to admit that Nicky and Lorna are a cute couple, and she's pleased for them (they're her best friends, after all), but she still can't shake the unnerving feeling that something is different._

_Alex's anticipation is confirmed when Nicky's skittish smirk contorts into a menacing scowl, not far short of the morning's tantrum, and Alex internally collapses at the sight. Yet her casual, cocky exterior doesn't disintegrate under such sensitivity; she won't permit it. "Hey, guys." She nods. "Can I sit with you, or are you doing some...coupley thing?"_

_"We're on a date." Nicky grunts, flinging a Skittle into her mouth and crushing it down._

_"No, silly!" Lorna giggles dimly, swallowing her mouthful of chocolate. "We ain't on a date in fronta' all these people!"_

_"Lorna, we're on a date." Nicky spits, all the venom intoxicating her tone._

_"Oh...yeah, we're on a date." Lorna's head bobbles obediently as she faces Alex. "Yunno, cos' Nic's grounded an' all, so we gotta spend lotsa' time together like this."_

_"What, in the school cafeteria?" Alex chuckles, but a pinch of hestiance is sprinkled in. "Pfft, cos' that's really classy."_

_"I don't wanna fuckin' sit with you!" Nicky hisses, matted, frizzy locks falling into her face. "I wanna sit with my-"_

_"Nicky, stop bein' so loud." Lorna frowns, jostling Nicky's elbow._

_"-my girlfriend..." Nicky mumbles, hustling the loose strands away._

_"Yeah, Al, we ain't gonna see each other a whole lot." Lorna shrugs. "Sorry. Hey, why don't ya sit with the AV Club ova' there? Ain't you friends with em'?"_

_"You guys are my only friends." Alex feels tears beginning to well, her heart shattering into shards, but she swiftly blinks them back. "You know that."_

_Nicky snorts. "Well, uh, you should've thought about that a bit fuckin' closer before you started mouthin' off to Marka."_

_Alex knows what she's done, knows Nicky is (somewhat) justified in her reasoning, but in her plummeting gloom, the tragically expected hopelessness that threatens to fester, she won't succumb in the slightest. "I-I was just defending you, Nicky."_

_"I can handle my own shit, okay? I don't need you babysittin' me."_

_"Can I just sit here...?" Alex pleads pitifully, pathetically, defeat an uncontrollable proepller; she hates being resorted to such frail feebleness, resents the terrified, cowering child inside that never ceases to exist, because she's mastered the mask and doesn't seek to lose it. "Seriously, Jessica's gonna eat me alive if I sit by myself..."_

_Nicky scoffs, refusing to comply at all costs, fingers clenching the Coca-Cola can like a strangling serpent. "You seem pretty capable of defending yourself. Doesn't she, baby?"_

_"Yeah, uh..." Lorna murmurs, eyes snidely sliding from Alex's piercing gaze. "You do..."_

_"The actual fuck..." Alex's crackling voice crumbles under the crashing realisation that this, Nicky and Lorna, now together, is the very twist to their trio; she's no longer their equal, for their relationship (one that she encouraged, no less) is placed on the highest pedestal. "What happened to 'all for one, one for all...?'"_

_As Nicky and Lorna look to Alex, to each other, and to strange spots on the ceiling, Alex can't suppress the dingy duskiness sneaking like shadows in brilliant luminescence. She's second fucking best, and they've made that clear._

_"You know what?" Alex mumbles darkly, teeth gritting together in a shot of seething spite. "Don't even answer. I already know what you're gonna say. Some fucking friends you are."_

_Spinning sharp on her heels, Alex refuses to wait for their incoming defense._


	11. Homosexualism Alert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Alex-centered chapter (again, had to split things up), but next one's all about Pipes :) 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait.

"Least the bleeding stopped." As Nicky trails behind Alex, she glances to scarred, screeching knuckles and winces at the imprint of her rage. "Fuck, man. I stopped punching everything for a reason."

Alex strolls ahead through the sleek corridor and snickers snarkily, the heavy leather jacket resting on her form once more. "Including everyone around you."

"Eh?"

"Tenth grade. After the winter talent show. You were like Mr Hyde that day."

"Aw, c'mon." Nicky whines, scampering to Alex's side and pushing up her falling sunglasses. "I apologised for it, right? And it was only your back. Not like I went around karate choppin' your beautiful symmetrical face."

Alex smirks. "After a week, yeah. I appreciated the haphazardly written note of repentance. Who forced you to do that anyway? Lorna?"

Nicky shakes her head. "It was Marka. Some teacher overheard my outburst and called her."

"I'm pretty sure the whole of Brooklyn heard you." Alex chuckles, and Nicky responds with a leisurely shrug. "But I always thought Lorna told you to apologise. I mouthed off to Marka that day. I mean, she did deserve it, but I didn't think she'd take my side."

"Oh, yeah." Nicky nods in agreement. "She totally deserved it. The bitch was on her usual cuntathon. But, uh, that doesn't excuse how I treated you. I guess it was one of those few occasions where Marka was unfortunately right."

"She was definitely right. But on the bright side, at least you're not going on a weekly punching spree anymore. You might've fucked up your hands."

"Eh, so I would've got a lot more practice with my tongue. Doesn't matter."

"In playing instruments?"

"Are we referring to two different things?"

"I think with my brain. You think with your vagina. Our perceptions vary."

Confronted by a set of grand double doors, Alex and Nicky arrive to a sudden halt. Alex settles her palm on a door and summons all her spindly, shaky strength to push it forth. Aching arms creak under the pressure, but she doesn't allow Nicky to notice her struggle. She hasn't wholly released the tension from before, and a lingering dark cloud of mistrust threatens to downpour. Her rationality a sham, the falsification of Nicky being forgiven; just like everything else, Alex pretends all is adequate,

because, even at the end of the tunnel, the exit is cloaked in a moaning murkiness, and they're still in desperate desires for their precious heroin.

"Hey, Nic," as Alex opens the door, muscles squealing in resistance, a thought crosses her mind, "have you still got those boxing gloves?"

"Yeah, I just don't use 'em." Nicky strides into the ajacent room. "Effort is required. And effort does not like me...oh, hey, Washington!"

"Yo, Nichols!"

Poussey Washington springs out of her seat and makes a dash for Nicky. The two clasp hands and drag each other in for a lengthy embrace. Alex watches the scene unfold and silently sinks into the lonesome ocean; Nicky's always found other friends easily, sliding into an alliance with sexualised snark and a comically caricatured loudmouth. Lorna too, what with her exuberant, chipper cheeriness and fine framework. They've lent on endless shoulders, both riding a raft with untold allies on board, and Alex has known this for years. She, by contrast, holds her individualistic flair to a high regard, not needing to immerse herself within countless rows of bodies, all like standing dominoes. But as Nicky chatters with Poussey, Alex can't shake the crawling feeling that she's unhealthily distant from most, and has lent on their shoulders without wholly-

No. She's not reliant on them. Definitely not. She's her own person. A lone wolf. She doesn't need anybody.

Or perhaps she does. Perhaps she needs to pour her feelings out, the confusion and confliction in her brain, her ever consuming attraction. Piper Chapman, who somehow crawls into Alex's innermost turmoil and flips the switch, instilling a cruising enthrallment only drugs can achieve. She doesn't want to be in Los Angeles, living a fucking farce, standing beside the bandmates that no longer care. Her dread is incessant and ascends to the skies above, the looming thundercloud growling with frightening ferocity. She doesn't want this, no. What she does desire, what she craves, is to return to New York and stroll into that nightclub and lock Piper's lips in a gliding kiss, because she's a free faller in navigating the foreign world of relationships and she'll roll with whatever.

Fuck. Maybe she does need someone.

"Nice of you to acknowledge my existence." Gina mumurs from the sofa, a scowling sulk etched into lithe features. "I just got here, but no, nobody gives a-"

"Ain't seen you since San Fran Pride!" Poussey exclaims, affectionately patting Nicky's back. "That shit was cray-cray! You were whacked outta your mind!"

"Yo, you were sloshed!" Nicky howls with laughter. "How can you take that much booze?! You've got the body of a fuckin' sippy straw! That shit was fuckin' wild, man!"

"The wildest thing about San Fran Pride was your ridiculous suit." Boo slides into the exchange with a smirk. "Now, I'm a proper butch, but I wouldn't dream of wearing a suit in ninety degree heat."

"Hey, I'm basically Jay Gatsby." Nicky smoothly retorts, tugging on her shirt collar, countless chains clattering in sync. "I'm a real stylish swooner. But, uh, what's your excuse for turnin' up in a vest and jeans? Nothing gay about that."

"Son, there is everything gay about that." Boo sneers. "I, looking fucking amazing and appropriately representing all the diesel dykes in America. You, turning up like a rogue circus clown and a science experiment gone terribly wrong. You're a lesbian's worst nightmare."

"Burn!" Tricia bellows, giggling with glee.

Nicky strides towards Boo, her simper broadening into a brilliant grin. "Well my circus suit got the ladies all giddy. I stole four chicks off Dominga Duarte. Even she knows I'm the real Daddy."

Boo chuckles, fulled by a seething satire. "Who'd you get your fucking filthy paws on this time? The Klump family?"

Even Alex can't avoid a curt snigger. Nicky often talks like a mountain, but the reality is far lower than anybody would anticipate. Alex is (fortunately) accustomed to Nicky's brazen cheek, and yet it remains a hindrance all the same, always getting the two of them stuck in the revolving doors, the two of them imploding into chaos and ruin. If she's honest with herself, Alex has never quite liked that about Nicky. But she isn't honest. About anything. Ever. So her dismay is quite irrelevant.

Nicky cockily clasps her belt with both hands. "I had chunky black beauty on my left and brunette bombshell Ruski on my right. My pussy was in fuckin' heaven, guys. All that glorious ass winking in my face, those juggernaut titties-"

"No one wants to hear about all your gross flings, Nicky!" Lorna hollers, her accent unusually coarse and thorough.

The atmosphere emerges mute as Lorna breaths harsh and heavy, eyes flashing with frightful fury; it's happened before, and Alex has been held a witness, Lorna's blustering outbursts scathing through her bubbly elation. Nicky's smug smirk dissipates into the silent shadows, her ego battered by the perils of Lorna's plummeting stability. Alex can't help but think Nicky deserves it, being put to shame when everyone's leering on the watch. She knows Nicky's withdrawing, can sense her friend's decrepit self-restraint (if her sexually prolific rambles are anything to go by), but Alex certainly isn't exempt from such,

because it's fucking painful and nearly every battered bone in her body is screeching out for her next hit.

"Hey, hey, calm your tits, doll." Nicky flops down beside Lorna. "They're just in-between girls. Space-fillers. None of 'em mean shit to me."

Lorna huffs, nose pointing in the air, arms constricting over her chest. "Why you gotta brag about all the stupid sluts you've fucked? It's not nice."

"C'mon, Lorn," Nicky pouts and wraps an arm around Lorna's waist, dragging her in tight, "I'm just fooling around. You know you're my girl."

Nicky pecks Lorna's forehead and laces their fingers together, earning a softening smile from Lorna. One smidge of comfort and Lorna is instantly reassured, her chipper self resuming. Alex unconsciously rolls her eyes and sighs in an effort to stabilise her sanity. It's like barbed wire has been constructed in her view, acting as a fatal partition between them. Impossible to penetrate and tear down, Alex reluctantly hovers from afar, all her opinions, insights, the truth, invariably discarded before her. Stood on the outside of her world, remaining on the very cusp of control, Alex feels anonymous and unknown within the celebrity cyclone. She's no good for anyone and nobody's good for her, but she's prisoner in herself, unable to shatter the chains of disgusting despair, and she loathes herself for it.

She definitely hasn't absolved Nicky's behaviour. Not wholly, not truthfully. Maybe she never has. With Nicky grasping the spotlight and holding it high into the heavens above, Alex desires to pounce on the plains and thieve it for herself. Discreetly of course, because she's definitely not one for head-on collisions. They're absurd.

Maybe she still wishes to discuss Piper and maybe she doesn't, only to accept it aloud, to make it real for herself, but she's plucked Nicky straight out of that equation.

But I could talk to Lorna, Alex thinks, a twinkle of hope settling in.

"What happened to your knuckles, honey?" Lorna frowns, gently elevating Nicky's hand and inspecting reddened scratches. "They're all sore."

"Eh, it's nothin'." Nicky shrugs it off with an encompassing nonchalance. "I just tripped over. Don't worry, doll. You know I'm a fuckin' klutz."

"Want me to kiss 'em better?"

"Heh. Sure, kid."

Lorna leans down and presses soft, lipstick-infused kisses on Nicky's throbbing skin, and Nicky flashes a typically cocksure grin. Alex internally groans, jaw clenching in ascending tension. Cast into the secluded scene, Alex is (unsurprisingly) hovering on the hueless horizon, the darkness marking its dashing descent in her wrangling brain. No matter what she'll say or do, the spin cycle forever whizzes about, and her reality remains a relentless constant. She doens't want this, no; she can't want this, can't contend with this, because nobody would. The resentment, eons of demeaning dramatics, never not caught in the middle of it all. She'd like to think it isn't envy, that it's simply the layers of venom refusing to be shed, but as she sees Nicky and Lorna grow utterly enamoured in each other's gaze, that starkly familiar animosity snarls and gnarls at her thoughts,

for she can't talk to Lorna either.

Maybe she does need someone, but a someone who'd never permit such dysfunctionality.

"Homosexualism alert!" Poussey erupts into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and the moment is suddenly shattered. "Divert your eyes!"

While Lorna fires a gleaming glare of abhorrence, Nicky continues to grin, completely and utterly unfazed. "Yo, has Taystee got a tasty pussy?"

"What?" Poussey scoffs, chuckles rapidly dying, instantly drawn to the dangling bait. "Fuck you, man. She ain't gay. Made that one clear enough."

"I could convert her? Use my top secret ways of persuasion?"

"If you mean tyin' her up and forcin' her to watch your eighties porno collection while you play 'Finger in the Dyke,' then nah, man. That ain't cool."

"Eighties porn?" Boo perks up. "Well sign me up, motherfuckers. Where's your rental service, Nichols?" 

Nicky sniffles, reclining back in her seat. "Exclusive viewings only." 

"What, with your blow-up Barbie Doll prostitutes? That's enough plastic to fill a fuckin' landfill-" 

"Nobody is fuckin' talkin' about this!" Lorna screeches through gritted teeth, the internal frenzy floating through her farce once again, 

and a stabbing silence arises; a silence Alex instantaneously recalls. 

Granted, she definitely can't talk to Lorna about Piper. Her seesaw moods, from apparent stability to the instability of her demonized self, the unnerving reality that she sublimely dictates, isn't one to contend with. Gorgeously deathly by demeanour, Alex has always anticipated the underlying chaos that Lorna ensues, but because she's sweet and charming and pretty in design, eternally carrying herself in a way that disguises all that is frightful, all that is depsicable and despised, nobody questions it aloud. 

"Uh, you alright, Trish?" Gina questions, seizing the responsibility to do her utmost, almost as if a certain manager were hovering over her shoulder. "You've been quiet."

"Yeah, I'm cool." Tricia shrugs. "I dunno, I'm just shy sometimes. Happens, don't it?"

"You ever like that on stage?" 

"Sorta. Not every time."

"Hey, it's chill." Poussey offers a soft smile. "You still new. Takes gettin' used to, man. I used to DJ before I started producing, and that was some scary shit. Crowds were fuckin' nuts."

"You're probably freaking her out more." Alex chuckles. "I used to get awful stage fright. I never showed I was scared, since I could keep my composure, but inside I was a fucking quivering mess. Each time you get out there and perform, it gets easier and easier. Trust me."

"Yo, uh," Tricia begins, clear-cut apprehension clouding her manner, "is it cos' you're high, Stretch?"

"No, it's..." Alex exhales, knowing, knowing that Tricia's words are truer than she'd ever wish to admit, but never wanting to acknowledge nor accept her untimely fate; not when her prodigy is present, anyhow. "I'm not high during concerts-"

"Lies." Nicky hones in like a buzzing bee, adamant on asserting her presence, her arm now swung across Lorna's shoulders. 

"Nichols." Gina states, scarily standoffish in her approach. 

"Whassup, Murphy?"

"You haven't quit yammering since you walked in. Do you have an off-switch?"

"Funny enough, I've got an off-switch between my clit and my hood. I'll just get my fingers up there and-"

"Please, please shut up." Gina growls. "You've been pissing me off all week."

"Uh, alright." The dripping confidence is zapped from Nicky's tone, and Alex can almost detect that buried brokenness coming to the surface. "I'll just sit here. I'll be a ninja. And I guaran-fuckin'-tee, you will not hear even a pin drop outta me."

"Right, uh," Poussey blinks, shakes her head, as if she's forcing forgotten notions to reignite. "Now we gotta get down to business here. Your collab with Carlin, it's gonna take some work. Real talk, the bitch ain't easy to get on with."

"Yeah, we're aware." Alex chuckles. "These two have a history," she languidly gestures to Nicky, "but none of us are particularly keen per se."

"Oh, damn." Poussey's eyes widen. "What went down between you two? Fightin' over the same chick?"

Alex darts an unbearably smug smirk at her slouching, forlorn friend, unhealthily amused by Nicky's dismay. "That's Nichols' story to tell."

"Uh, right. So, we'll have a few brainstormin' meetings, see what ya'll can agree on. You got any ideas?"

"An album focused on the immense bloodshed of modern warfare." Gina says, oddly sprightly in her demeanour.

Nicky scoffs. "You're a sick fuck, Murphy." 

"Seriously?!" 

"Should I Scotch Tape her mouth shut?" Tricia proposes.

"I'll do the honours, Trish." Alex shrugs, still smirking, but hardly joking about the matter.   
  
Alex stands in the solitary hallway, hermit-like in her desertion from the chattering company beyond double doors. She can't remember when she decided to walk out, utterly overwhelmed by the weight on her brain, but that doesn't concern her. Aimlessly gazing ahead, she finds the mute surroundings soothing to her throbbing mind, offering a fleeting release from the chains of captivity inside. Consumed by the urge to cocoon herself, slipping into a durable shell, Alex likes to linger in isolation at times. Always doing, doing, doing, rushing from concert to club to recording studio, bestowed upon by a countless influx of undefinable fans, it's all too fucking much to sustain, and Alex's only true solace is her precious, powerful powder,

unless she sees her, whose brilliant eyes are like blistering ice in the lagoon, reminding Alex that not all is awful.

"Ah. We meet again, Alex Vause."

Alex clamps her eyes closed in disdain as the exceedingly pompous tone of Stella fucking Carlin scratches against her eardrums. Stella fucking Carlin, the last person she'd ever yearn to encounter in the admist of her pathetically pitiful pain, the perils withdrawal so determined in its pursuit to embrace the inevitably demise, to let the curtains eternally fall.

As Alex's eyes flutter open, Stella struts to her side, mininal clothing flaunting vibrant ink across her lanky body. "How's Digger? I hope, for your sake anyhow, that the crazy hasn't been unleashed."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Alex scoffs in contempt, not bothering to stretch even the slightest smile. "The Corpse Bride got arrested. And we weren't even a thing. Don't you read the headlines?"

Stella offers a sluggish shrug. "If I can't see 'Stella' and 'Carlin' in one sentence, I tend to skip over those articles. They're pretty boring."

"Huh." Alex nods. "That's weird, because when I see 'Stella' and 'Carlin,' I'm sitting there thinking 'wow, I really do wanna know every single thing about Hollywood's dingo dyke.' I truly applaud the celebrity tabloids for providing me with such lifesaving information."

Stella sneers, a gushing contempt escaping through the rotten dam, and Alex is subtly amused by it. "Go shag one of your prossies, Vause. It's the only pussy you can get."

"Well," Alex perseveres, marching forth in their skirmish, "I heard on the grapevine that you're pretty shit when it comes to pleasing your girls. Jealous, are we?"

"I'm the champion of pussy licking." Stella rakes colourful fingers through cropped, gelled hair. "Are you doubting my title?"

"Ey, Carlin!" Nicky strolls along and vigorously pats Stella's shoulder; Alex senses enmities between rivals bulldoze through, the taut, tightened air no longer a brushing of tranquility. "You're stealin' my Guinness World Record! I-I should fuckin' sue ya! Maybe you'll, uh, go to prison for bein' a thievin' dyke!"

"I'd totally go to prison." Stella says, glaring down at Nicky through sharp, superlicious eyes. "Think of the pussy pool, Nichols. The pussy pool with me as its only lifeguard."

"You gotta learn to fuckin' swim before ya can dive, man." Nicky grins cheekily and offers a brash wink. "Sittin' around that pussy pool is my kinda vacation. You'll just be tryin' to keep afloat, y'know? Ain't no point in you bein' a lifeguard."

Boo marches over, housing a smirk of her own. "While you two desperate dykes just observe from the outside the pool, I'll be heading straight to the deep end."

"Your BMI rejects basic paddling." Nicky cockily quips, and Alex suppress a snort at the brave remark.

"Don't worry, Nichols." Boo retorts, her tone riddled with seeping snark. "If you keep scoffing down those oatmeal pies you'll be the main feature on 'The Biggest Loser: A Nicky Nichols Tragedy' this time next year. I'm sorry to say, but an addict's an addict."

Smirk refusing to falter, Nicky flings an arm across Boo's stocky shoulders. "H-Hey, ain't you the mascot for the 'Fat Cunt' channel? And, uh, I'm just lovin' that cosplay of Cartman. Very realistic."

"Yo!" Tricia jogs to Stella's side, prising herself into the circle. "Can I join the roastin'?"

"Oh, Tricia." Boo tauntingly shakes her head. "You're...well, you're fucking terrible at banter. You're too young. Too inexperienced. And you've just ruined my home run of a comeback, so I thank you for that."

"C'mon, Boo." Tricia insists with a hopeful smile. "Lemme try. I'll do good."

"You are all fucking children."

The resonance of Red's growling, accented voice binds to Alex's conscience, grappling short-lived attentiveness and squeezing it to a pulp. Fibers tense and tighten up as Alex thinks back to last week; Red setting her up for slaughter like a twisted game of bear-baiting, palming all the churning, curdling terror in her face, unstable in a powerless pursuit to cease her demonic flame. And it's not fair, because Alex isn't exclusive to such masterly mishaps, and yet Red hoists her career on a snapping string. This, Alex sees, is Nicky's responsibility; extracting a consideration, a compassion, a cold conflict in the ideals of a professional and maternal figurehead. Yes, Nicky does need Red more than she (that Alex can admit alone), but that doesn't mean she accepts the disproportionate weighing scales.

Fuck. She's jealous.

Red strides into the scene, gait stiff with a ferocious intensity. A hand resting on her lower back, predatory eyes leer at the flock before her. "Sit down." She instructs, snarling. "We have not flown here to play which lesbian can throw the ghastliest insults at one another."

"C'mon, ma." Nicky whines. "Don't piss on our parade, yeah?"

"Nikita." Red hisses harsh, and Nicky slouches in a surly submission. "Do I need to warn you again, child?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, ma."

"God, I am dealing with pathetic little toddlers." Red grumbles. "There is a fucking job to do, and you all know how I feel towards slackers. Go." She points to another set of doors. "Get your useless asses in that fucking boardroom."

As Red thrusts a door open and stomps inside, Nicky and Stella tread behind her, the war of insiduous insults recommencing, and Alex is silently relieved that she isn't pulled into it. Alex continues to harbour that hostile reserve (even if she refrains from exhibiting such) because everything revolves around Nicky. Alex wishes to discuss Piper, wants to understand why she craves to see the stranger she's seemingly known her whole life, but she's held back in the confines of her resentment; dramatics from a decade ago hardly being displaced, the relentless brawling of her closest companions(?), forever intertwined in their complex web. And Nicky, who is most certainly at fault for ceasing Alex's short-fused enthrallment, stopping her from furthering any conversation with Piper, continues to centre the circle around herself.

Then again, Nicky probably thinks the same of her.

"That's gotta be a thing." Tricia speaks up, and Alex is dragged out of her dangerous headspace.

"What?" Boo wonders, brows furrowed.

"Uh," Tricia begins, "Yunno, the whole 'which lesbian can throw the gha...ghast-whatever, insults at each other.' One of those, yunno, TV quizzes or some shit. Yo, Boo, you could host it."

"Tricia?"

"Uh huh?"

"Do you understand satire?"

"Uh, what?" Tricia frowns, all youthful innocence on the perfect upkeep. "I don't need ta' understand satay...it's a chicken thing on a stick. Ain't it?"

Boo snickers, profusely shaking her head. "Holy shit, you're a complete imbecile."

"Boo." Alex warns. "Stop."

"Yes, Mrs Reznikov. I offer my strongest apologies for such insolence, Mrs Reznikov."

Alex slides her glasses off and sighs, numbed by the unbearable tearing of her mind. She trudges away from Tricia and Boo, legs weighted down with the heaviness of her head, the dingy depths of darkness always knocking on her door. Fuck, she can't deal with this. With any of this. Her brain infirm and porous, she absorbs all the tragic aura in her presence. She can't deal with Nicky and Lorna, nor can she contend with Stella or Red, and she most definitely cannot confront whatever she feels for Piper. Infinitely boggling her down, Alex feels herself caving under the immense burden of her melancholic misfortune, everything rolled into one gargantuan asteroid.

God, she feels like absolute shit, and there's only a single solution to her woes.


End file.
